Fall of the North RPG

[piosenniel]

Prologue

Malbeth the Seer was always restless, but he was far more restless today than he usually was.

His cold, grayed eyes looked across a burnished court floor to the feet of a middle-aged man, clad in the finest garments of Arthedain, who paced anxiously across the length of his hall, the great colonnade that marked the apex of the city of Fornost Erain. Upon the head of the man, capped with a smooth mat of brownish hair, streaked with the white that came from rulership’s stresses, was a silvery fillet bound across his brow with a single glimmering jewel, silver-white, set into it at the front. This was the Elendilmir, the Star of Elendil. The man’s hands wrung in front of him, showing signs of impatience and worry not befitting a King, and his brow was furrowed in worry, bereft of its former nobility. Those clasped hands held a gilt silver rod, a scepter inlaid with many dull jewels, the Sceptre of Annúminas, a signet of the Lords of Andúnië. On the thinning finger of his right hand, which encircled the scepter, was a sturdy ring, a pair of metal serpents encircling the digit to form it and meeting to entwine around an emerald-green stone set into the loop of their tales; the Ring of Barahir, the mightiest heirloom of the House of Elendil. This, as Malbeth knew well, was Araphant, the King of Arthedain, last of the Line of Isildur.

Or, he had been that last, until a few minutes ago.

Malbeth saw many things, most of which he saw through his eyes, but some, he saw with another sense, and this day he had seen something else. He was not a gifted man, nor was he a mighty prophet, magical in any way, but he could foretell some things, and, in the realm of Arthedain, his reputation had grown, at least enough to grant him a clerical following, no clandestine orders or mystical disciples though. He was renowned for his supposed abilities, and was called “Malbeth the Seer” throughout the land. In a troubled time, a time wrought with military and economic turmoil, people could believe in anything. He was not a falsifier, nor was he a liar and a charlatan. His real predictions were very rare, but there accuracy was held of highest importance. The King and court were not as easily swayed to opinions as were the common-folk of Arthedain, and regarded Malbeth merely as a soothsayer, with some knowledge they did not possess, but not a wealth of it. The seer’s wan face reflected little feeling about the matter.

The clipping of feet on marble began to fill Malbeth’s ears, like a chorus of raindrops loudly pelting a traveled road. Noisily, a squawking gaggle of handmaidens paraded down the hall, created a great din to replace the absolute silence. The chief handmaiden, a midwife, perhaps, did not hesitate to pay her respects to the King as she approached, and rushed, flustered, towards him. She bore a carefully tended bundle in her arms, cradled with great tenderness and maternal love. With a face reddened by toil and ecstatic eyes, she neared the King, who looked up on her, his face brightening. With a smile that could have brightened a dark room, the midwife pressed the bundle, swathed in silken blankets, into the unready arms of King Araphant. “Your majesty,” she uttered quickly, “it is a boy! You have a son, King Araphant!”

With a clumsy gesture and a tarrying moment, the king handed his scepter beneath the bundle, indicating that the midwife should take it. The maid took the rod with hesitation, and held it aloft with bright reverence, backing away as the King fumbled with the child nestled in his arms. He looked down, his anxious features relaxing and becoming gentle and benevolent as he examined the silent babe, who seemed comatose in his arms. He toyed with it as if it were a parcel, rocking it from side to side, and then turned to Malbeth. The seer did not react in any visible form to the look of respite on the face of the king.

“So, seer, shall this one be a good king?” He said, smiling warmly, but Malbeth did not even shake his head as he morosely replied. “I do not know.” The Seer replied, “I have not seen as much.”

“Will his reign be profitable, then?” questioned the King, patient, “Will he be loved?”

“I do not know, milord.” Malbeth replied again, his voice a somber monotone.

At this, the King became more impatient. His smile twisting into an annoyed frown, he shoved the sleeping boy in his arms into the unsuspecting grasp of the midwife and wrenched the Sceptre of Annúminas from her grip forcefully. “What do you know, then?” he said, louder and with more anger rampant in his voice, the tenderness of his care for the young son he’d held replaced by need for satiation by the soothsayer, who, as far as he could detect, was playing a trickster’s game with him. “I was told you wished to take counsel with me about my child.” He continued, brandishing the silver rod clutched in his hand, “What have you to say? What do you know?”

“His name, milord.”

Malbeth’s words were calm and collected, so much that, at first, Araphant’s face flushed with outrage and confusion, but it was confusion that won out. Araphant looked across the courtroom at the seer, his face the picture of a perplexed monarch. After a moment of mental deliberation, he spoke. “You know…his name?” Malbeth nodded, with such great solemnity that one who looked upon him might think he was a man in mourning. His pale face remained deathly white, but his eyes twinkled deftly, giving off a quick flash and an eerie glint that attracted the attention, and piqued the curiosity of the king. But, the strange nature of Malbeth made Araphant darkly nervous, and, to alleviate the air that had settled, he nearly laughed aloud, but stifled the sound and decided, against his better judgement, to entertain this mad theory of the soothsayer’s. “Very well.” He said, gesturing to Malbeth to continue, “What shall I call him?”

The seer of Arthedain took nearly a minute before he spoke, digesting each word that was about to come. He knew that the King might find them preposterous and possibly treasonous as well, but he had come to say them all the same, and would not leave this counsel until his message had been delivered. Araphant peered at him, filled with new misgivings, and the numerous handmaidens behind him whispered secretly to each other, gossiping of Malbeth’s ill-portents. He ignored the wayward maids and their talk, concentrating on his prediction, and then the seer reared back, filling himself with a breath of air, and spoke to the King.

“Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain. Though a choice will come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become king of a great realm. If not, then much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again.”

Some time passed after these words were uttered. Araphant did not speak again, considering the foresight of Malbeth judiciously. The darkness in those words struck a pang of fear into his heart, and daunted him. Malbeth might be casting clever wiles at him, to fright him from the throne, but the prophet’s words were natural in their course, like a flowing stream, and were not disrupted be either thought or wheedling foolishness. So, Araphant said to the seer, “Your foresight is too foreboding for my taste, Malbeth, but your counsel is wise. The child shall be called Arvedui, whether or not he is the last king. Now, if you have no more to tell, farewell.” He waved Malbeth away.

“It is a pleasure to serve, milord.” said Malbeth the Seer. This tryst was finished. Without a moment of waiting or a bow of reverence to the king, who stood at hand, Malbeth trod past Araphant and his chatting train, away from the child whose name his prediction had devised. His occupation bore an unhappy promise, in truth, one that gave him no solace, but it was his to perform, as oft as foresight came to him, and now Araphant knew of it, even if he could not fathom what Malbeth had meant about his heir’s fate.

His prophecy spoke of a choice.

In the year 1975 of the Third Age, that choice would be made in the barren, icy wasteland of Forochel, and the Line of Isildur and the Kings of Arnor would end…

Here follows the tale of Arvedui’s choice, the forgotten adventure of his people, and the Fall of the North.

--- Kransha

[piosenniel]

Kransha’s post

The battle had raged for days. Cities such as Fornost did not fall easily…but they fell all the same.

Hírvegil eyes saw a sight which he had never seen before, nor had most of the people in the city he now had a hand in protecting. Over the course of centuries, hundreds of years, thousands of sunrises and sunsets, foul orcs, the black spawn of darkness, had thrived and proliferated throughout Arnor. Never before, though, had such a terrible number been gathered, swarming beneath such a terrible banner and at the back of such a terrible lord. The forces of Angmar, orcs of Carn Dûm, like insects upon their prey, overwhelmed the gentle field that stretched, helpless and once serene, in front of the high-walled city of Fornost. The plains of Arthedain that sprawled lazily beneath Hírvegil were coated with their first layer of wintry snow, crystalline white that would, under normal conditions, have implanted a sense of tranquility in the man. But, today, the snows were marred with black and fiery red, embodied in the torches and flame-tipped torches that lined the orcish ranks as they crashed, wave after wave, into the weakening walls of Arthedain’s last stronghold.

Fornost was a great city, as some thought, though it did not compare to the grandest heights of old Númenór. It had not been built to fend off attacks by such numbers, though, and it was amazing that it had stood firm as long as it did. It was built of stone and marble, once sunny white and shining with the light of new civilization and prosperity. Now, it had been dulled in its color, and the carven features and profuse contours of the high walls, towers, and gates had been weakened by time, withered by the elements, and damaged further by conflict. Just within this mighty wall were the lowest levels of structures in the city, the training fields for the Arnorian military, and the diminutive homes, cluttered about over the brick foundations, densely packed together. Inscribed within that outer wall were two more walls, one around the housing and municipality of Fornost. This wall was narrower, but still bore a parapet from which archers and watchmen could overlook the field and structures before and below. Within this wall were the estates of the wealthier, more prosperous folk of Fornost. The higher-handed houses bore vaulted, extravagant roofs of more and less conservative architecture. Those were the dwellings that were home to the people of Fornost, the elite. The last wall looped gracefully around the central structures of the city, the inner sanctum: which contained the palace of the King and the quarters of his closest officials, counselors, and vassals. Here, the most grandiose of the abodes was, high towers that jutted into the cloudy sky, silvery pinnacles that rose above the many-halled court and the lavish mansions that sprung from it. This was the capital of Arnor, not necessarily at its best, but still a city to rival many others, a city that had been built to stand forever.

In Hírvegil’s eyes, it would last no longer than another few hours.

The outermost wall, the thickest, was now thin and vulnerable, with countless cracks and splinters running through the stones and still smoldering scorch marks from the heavy weaponry of the enemy burnt into the topmost parapets. The towers at the main gate had crumbled into so many mounds of dust and useless rubble. Many portions of the wall, and the buildings immediately behind, were reduced to refuse and ashen wreckage. The second wall was almost breached already, now that the orc hordes had surged past the ruin of the main wall and into the city. It was not as doughty as the one before, certainly, but it was now the last meager stretch of stone erected between the hordes of Angmar and the city itself. From the parapet of that wall, archers poured down arrows, stones, and any debris they could hurl upon the orcs as great waves of fire from below kept down the heads of the defenders. The frontal guard of Arvedui, the King of Arthedain, covered the top of the second wall, and filled the streets, crowding around the area behind the gates that led into the secondary sanctum and Fornost itself. On the other side of the wall, tremendous siege implements, gargantuan, cumbrous things, damask and dark, dragged from the shadows of Carn Dûm. Monstrous ballistas, ragged with spikes of steel and iron, shot forth great bolts, as long as a man, tipped and rimmed with tongues of flame that struck the walls and burst in a cloud of dense smog and glittering sparks. Primitive mangonel catapults, too heavy to be hefted past the first wall, lobbed great boulders; set alit with oil and fire, which crashed through all that stood between them and the city within. Rank after rank, wave after wave of orcs, armed with clubs and maces and mattocks of all sorts, bashed through the doors of every house and threw themselves against the main gates, attempting to bring them down despite the defensive implements employed against them. From above, the embattled second wall was slowly losing all those upon it, most to the wanton destruction wrought by the siege weapons. The line of defense for the city was wearing thin.

Hírvegil himself watched all this from the inner sanctum. He was a Captain of Arvedui’s rearguard, which would not see battle face-to-face until the last wall was breached. He was not thankful, though, for this reprieve, which many would’ve welcomed. At the behest of his King, who dwelled now in his halls, taking counsel with his seconds, he was not to journey past the reaches of the inner wall with his men. Before him, the people of Fornost were being overwhelmed by the orcs of the Witch-King. The ragged tatters of Dúnedain regiments had been all but crushed by the relentless assaults of the orcs, and now the darkling beasts were free to prey ruthlessly upon the hapless civilians of the city, who now ran rampant, with no place to turn, in the streets and alleys. Many attempted to reach the gates, but they had been barred against the orcs, and naught could be done. All that Hírvegil could do from his perch was hope that the aim of his chief marksmen on the battlements would find the throats of orcs, rather than those of the people being slain amongst them.

His lieutenant, Belegorn, stood nearby, peering over the wall’s turreted heights. The man’s eyes looked with a concern and whole sternness at the city below, with familiar yearning in those orbs as well. He turned as the clanking sound of Hírvegil’s overly cumbersome armor attracted his attention. When his face turned to Hírvegil, the Captain of the Rearguard saw more than simple worry in his lieutenant’s eyes, but no fear. He spoke, his voice heavy and serious, made hasty by all the surrounding events. “They will have the gates down within the hour, Hírvegil.” He said, brandishing the blade he held in his hand, clutched firmly beneath very white knuckles, “Our arrows cannot hold them off.” He was not a man who could become concerned at the drop of a hat, though this was no trivial matter. Belegorn was swayed by the struggle, and probably wished to join the fray in the city, rather than stand idly by.

“Not at this range, at least.” Hírvegil muttered in reply.

“We cannot get closer to them.” Belegorn retorted swiftly, “The only way to fight them directly is if they breach they gates, or we go beyond the gates.” Hírvegil turned; the dying ember of indifferent confusion tempered with biased rage against the goings-on, and began to walk down the length of the wall again, with Belegorn, sword swinging wildly as he hurried beside, close behind his commander. “Then we should go beyond the gates.” Hírvegil proclaimed, with a harsh tone in his voice, and some of the archers on the walls were nearly distracted by the darkness in him as he spoke, “The walls are nearly down as it is. If we stay here, besieged on crumbling walls, we have no more power than a game stag in the woods. Those who are trapped outside the inner gate need aid, and we can give it.” The wall was rocked just then by another great crash from beneath them, and crackling splinters ran across the cobblestones under their booted feet, but they ignored the damage.

“The King must order it first.” Belegorn said, obviously unsatisfied. He was no stickler for inaction, but the letter of the law was a law he abided by, and Hírvegil respected this. But, he was not in the mood to entertain matters of law. Arvedui’s codes were far more strict and binding than those of his father, Araphant, a fact which Hirvegil disliked. These matters should not clutter the battlefield, not in the way they did. Rounding on his lieutenant as they reached the fringe of the archers’ ranks, he spoke angrily. “The King has lost his senses if he does not see what we must do.”

“Be careful of what you say, Hírvegil, son of Sildathar.” intoned a sickly, creeping voice from behind the two. Belegorn spun first, more readily, as if he hearkened now to the baying call of a foul beast that had surmounted the battlements, but Hírvegil needed no foresight to know who had spoken. He turned slowly, anticipating the cold glare that met him.

Behind, perched and hunched over conspiratorially, stood Mellonar, one of Arvedui’s chief counselors, a great minister of Arthedain. The man was frail in form and figure, with features chiseled in a royal fashion, but so sharp as to be immediately unattractive. The neck of the wretched figure was permanently craned, and the arrogant head, beardless and pallid, hung downward beneath a heap of fur-lined mantles and robes. Mellonar was, to put it lightly, a detestable person, and his visage was no better. The counselor bore power over much of the happenings in Fornost, and was administrator of Arvedui’s many wardens and captains, who, in truth, did little more than communicate the Kings orders to his military commanders and then point out their failings. Among the soldiers of Arthedain, Mellonar was considered a very vulture in his countenance, and no man argued with the opinion, for even Mellonar himself acknowledged it with his bearing. Hírvegil, though, had known the King’s minister since his early days a warden of Arthedain’s borders, and had reason to bear him more malice, but he did not. In times of war, there was no use in wasting hatred on allies.

“Take command.” Hírvegil said sternly to his lieutenant. Belegorn nodded with quick astuteness and hurried off to the line of discharging archers at the battlement edge. After a circumspect moment of silence, Hírvegil cried after him, saying, “Focus fire upon those that man the rams below. That will hold them at bay.” With this he turned again to the counselor beside him, who had sidled silently closer to him. He looked, with an icy, glazed-over stare at the man, who stood comparatively shorter than himself, and extended, first, a question. “Why have you come, Mellonar?” he said, not deigning to smile in his reviling, for the battle’s hardships were still foremost in his mind, “I know your heart bears no love of battle.”

“I have not come to watch your folly on the field, Captain. I come with news from Arvedui’s Court.”

“Tell me, then, how long shall Arvedui take counsel with bombasts while his people die in the streets?”

“Do not question your king, Captain Hírvegil.” Mellonar snapped, his irksome voice forced to swell to accommodate the din of the battle that churned noisily in the distance, “His majesty has adjourned the conclave in his chambers.” Hírvegil peered at him angrily, the loosened grip he had on his sword tightening as he continually glanced to the side, his fire-filled eyes straying to the clustered city and the great torrents of smoke and fire that rose from every broken structure. He turned to Mellonar again, stepping forward in a most intimidating manner, and shook his sword angrily, the delicate edge of the Númenórean blade glinting in the noonday sun and reflecting broad rays of light onto Hírvegil’s armored breastplate. “What, then, would he have us do?” he said with dark, fury-wrought tone, half under his breath, “Wait for the doom of Angmar to tear down our walls as we stand upon them and bear us all to ruin and death?”

Mellonar did not hesitate to take several minute paces back, out of the range of Hírvegil’s quivering blade. As he moved, it seemed as if the counselor glided across the ruptured cobblestones, his robe flowing gently beneath him, as if he were some carrion-fowl creeping away from its scavenged meal. “Rally your men, Captain,” he commanded, mustering a semblance of dignity, “if you have loyalty enough to do so, and gather what folk you can from the city. The army of Fornost is sundered, and we can no longer defend the city. In his wisdom, the King has concluded that we must make for the North Downs, where forts still lie in the hills, and seek refuge their until we have organized, and may flee west. The ‘doom of Angmar’ will beset us further if we do not make haste.” He snickered silently, but did not smile. Even he knew the dire straits that had befallen Arthedain, and it was still his city, even if he could not appreciate the sacrifices being made so that he would survive. He scowled and slowly turned; arching his half hunched shoulders behind him and wincing each time a deafening crash erupted from the battle behind.

“Begone from here!” Hírvegil cried after him in disgust, “We will flee in due time. Let me salvage my troops.” Mellonar turned back, jumping again as a thunderous jolt rattled through the ground beneath him. “Do what you wish, but do not tarry. The king commands that you find those of most importance still in the city. Of utmost importance are the Elves of Lindon and of Rivendell, who still dwell in the inner sanctum. They must live past this day, if an alliance is to be sought with their kindred.” He pointed his bony fingering, which was, as much as he tried to conceal it, obviously trembling with unadulterated fear. “Be swift, Hírvegil.” He whispered to the stray wind, and turned again, hurrying back towards the King’s Halls.

“And you may be swift in your flight, as well, lest your cowardice sprouts wings and carries you from here.” Hírvegil’s voice rang coldly. He watched, satisfied, to some degree, as Mellonar winced again. Before the nobleman had reached his beloved, protective halls, Hírvegil had already turned and was moving concordantly towards the wall, where his men where still, pouring every arrow they had into the disorderly ranks of beasts that were crowding forward, gaining little ground, but still gaining, through the city below. Moving as swiftly as he could, he reached the line of men, all leaning precariously over the rail of the battlements. Belegorn was still easily directing the troops to fire, though their aim had not been granted any more precision. Belegorn turned as Hírvegil approached. “What says the king?” he said hastily, obviously just as eager as Hírvegil to hasten to the outer city’s aid.

“The King says that we must tend to politics again,” snapped Hírvegil, seeming rueful and spiteful, “but we will do what is needed.” He neared Belegorn, but the other troops nearby heard his words as they gained volume and commanding quality, that quality held by a Captain only, and they knew that whatever Hírvegil was going to say, they would do best to heed his words with great speed. “Command the entire rearguard to enter the city by any means they can find,” he said, directing the sentence at Belegorn, “including the main gate. Do not fight the foes in Fornost, if possible, and tell them to search the ruins for survivors. When all have been brought together, we shall rally at the gates. The city is to be evacuated.” This last phrase sent a minor shocking jolt into the faces nearby. Even though this action had been expected during the battle, no one was really ready for the crippling blow of hearing it said aloud. The city was alight with fire, which loomed and speared up into the highest reaches of the smog-filled sky, so that the pallid faces of frightened men were illuminated, painted blood red by the tongues of flame. Nevertheless, they turned willingly, as Belegorn and Hírvegil rushed through the thickly packed ranks to the front and, issuing orders left and right, lead the rearguard into the city of Fornost, now in ruins.

They moved down quickly, in droves, nearly. There were several angular staircases that led down from the battlements. Like its technical sister city in the south, Minas Tirith, Fornost was built, in a sense, on levels, so that going from one sanctum to the next would predispose descending. Each sanctum and protective wall rose above the one that surrounded it, so that the city seemed to be a very grand hill, which terminated in a very geometric stump where the King’s Halls and Towers coalesced. It was not hard, therefore, to get down into the lower levels of the defensive bulwarks and onto the other platforms and levels, but besieging foes might have a harder time reaching the heights of the inner sanctum even if they did break through. Unfortunately, there were so many vile beasts in the dark host that even a splinter in the cracking walls would’ve accommodated a great wealth of them. Already they rose and fell upon the city like black oceanic tides, crashing down on rocks, which were worn away by their constant lapping at the city’s foundations. The Dunedain rearguard, and scattered remnants of the army, surged through the gates and at the orcish hordes.

“Into the city!” cried Hírvegil as loudly as his failing voice could afford him, above the mighty thunder and fire, the crashing of steel on steel and stone on earth, “Seek out the Elf-kind and those who have escaped the orcs. Make haste!”

[piosenniel]

CaptainofDespair's post

Standing on the last remaining battlements of the city, was the Lord Mitharan. Alone he was, save for his bodyguard who stood at a distance. He slowly surveyed the carnage of his once mighty home of Fornost. Below, the bodies of the dead Dunedain soldiers and civilians were strewn amongst the carcasses of the orcs. Black blood mixed with the red-stained innards of the slain people of Fornost. The stench that arose from the streets and alleys was horrendous, and few could withstand the reek for more then a few moments. But the orcs, the orcs relished the smell, and it gave them new life. They only lived for the destruction of men and elves, and it was their greatest love to see the bodies of these hated enemies being ripped apart and eaten, some of them still alive. This sight disgusted the Dunedain Lord, and he turned from the death and destruction, and strode off the battlements, towards the last of the Great Halls, to hold a council with his remaining lords.

The streets were eerily quiet, as he walked the lonely path to the Hall. His mind drowned out the horrific sounds of the screaming, and torturous deaths of the civilian populace, as the Orcs ran rampant through the broken streets, killing and plundering as they went. Rather, he focused on his task at hand. He was forced to take a few back alleys at one point, as the barricades that had been laid up, were still in position, ready to be defended to the last. He was careful to avoid these checkpoints, for they only slowed him down, and he was hurriedly moving about. Yet at last, with a bit of effort, he found himself upon the steps of the Great Hall. Pushing aside the great wooden doors, he entered the slightly damaged building, which had been hit with siege projectiles in the latter parts of the Witch-King’s siege. One section of the wall was even being supported by the wooden struts of nearby houses, which had been destroyed or severely damaged by those same projectiles.

Upon entering, he stopped in mid-stride, and gazed at the lords who were now arrayed in the hall, and we already discussing what would be done. The King though, was absent, apparently handling other, more important business, with his chief counselors. Quietly, Mitharan slid himself into a chair, to listen to the rest of the debate. For a few moments, all was silent, as the speaker, having been interrupted, attempted to regain his thoughts. But at last, he composed himself, and began to speak.

“We are now at a crossroads. We have only two remaining options. Surrender has been ruled out, as neither side would accept it, and it would only be disastrous for our people. Thus, we must either fight to the death, or flee into the wilds, and hope to evade this enemy for as long as we must.” The Counselor paused, and scanned the faces of those surrounding the great, round table they were situated around. “Now, we must make a decision that will affect us for generations to come, or will end our people. But final word will come from the King, to where we flee, or where we die.”

Many of the other lords sat still, almost like they were frozen. Not a single one of them rose to answer the call of the speaker. Instead, they sat, and pondered their fate, and the fate of the Dunedain. But, Mitharan, in his unconventional ways, rose at long last, and addressed his peers.

“Our doom is inescapable! We are a dwindling people, losing number every day. We will not, nor can we, recover from what has occurred. If we flee, we will only be hunted, like rabbits fleeing the dog. The Witch-King will not stop until we are all dead. Our families, our people, will live in fear daily. Why not end that, and put up one last, glorious defense. One worthy of the name Dunedain!” He paused, and as if to ensure his meaning got across to the elder lords of this Council, he spoke again. "We must fight to the death!"

Murmurs could now be heard amongst the wizened men. Mitharan still stood, as though he was ready to march out, and confront the Witch-King himself. Finally, at the behest of another, he sat, and awaited the replies. But only dissension could be heard rising up. Some agreed with the young lord, and wanted to face the enemy head on, but the eldest of them, wanted to hide in the wilds, and hope to find a safe haven. Eventually, most agreed with this idea, and the Council began discussing what option they had, should they manage to escape the ruin of Fornost. Some suggest Imladris, others, Ered Luin, and a few suggested Lindon, where Cirdan dwelt. But a final agreement could not be made, other than that those who could flee, should go where they are able.

Mitharan stood from the table, upon the conclusion of the debate, and fled the confines of the hall, for the rancid smell of the dying city. Walking out, he heard the sounds of the dying rising up over the last section of defendable walls, and ran towards it. His only thought was to die protecting those who needed him, the civilians. Quickly he went, until at last he can to the final barricade before one who enter the overrun sections of the city. With his bodyguard in tow, he entered. His first sight, was that of some hapless civilian who had been caught in the fighting. Her eyes stared up at him, unblinking. His heart sank, and put his fingers over her eyes, and pulled the lids such, to give peace to the soul. Wandering a bit further into the city, he found more of the same, only in droves they had died, cut down before their time, by a merciless enemy. His bodyguard meanwhile, was becoming all the more worried. They feared the orc numbers, and knew if they were sighted, only the good graces of the Valar would be able to save them. But they didn’t express this fear openly, but Mitharan saw it in their eyes, and he wept to himself, for what had happened.

With the gates breached, nothing would stop the hordes from coming. Eventually, the inner defenses would fall, and Fornost would be made into a haven of vile creatures and great evil. The guards at the gate had fallen quickly, and only a swift counter-attack by the remnants of the outer defenses, saved the city from falling in one fell swoop. But those men gave their lives, willingly. But at long last, Mitharan could stand the smell of the Angmarim-guided death, and fled back to the inner sanctum of the city. As he crossed the final barriers, in silence, he caught sight of the Captain, Hírvegil. He seemed rather grim, more so than most men in his situation. But the Lord heeded him not, for now at least, and fled up the final stair cases into the inner sanctum of the city, to await what the final order would be from the King.

[piosenniel]

Garen LiLorian's post

". . . we are to escort you to the north gate of the sanctum. We shall escape that way and remove ourselves to the North Downs. Please, gather your possessions quickly and come with us.” Angóre stood in the doorway of the hall, listening to the Dúnedain knight delivering his missive in clipped tones. The Man finished, and the emissary removed herself hastily to the depths of the chamber. Angóre did not stir. All that he owned he carried already. “Tell me then, friend. Is there no hope for the city?” His tone was measured and calm. The captain’s voice was weary as he replied, “The first gate is down, the hordes of Angmar are against the second wall and our resistance is scattered.” His eyes flashed. “And of such companies that remain whole, many of us are sent on political errands, collecting emissaries and diplomats instead of helping our brethren on the walls. Begging your pardon, master Elf.” He finished in a sarcastic tone of voice. Angóre looked out again at the walls, beyond which the sounds of battle carried clearly. “I do not think that you shall be deprived of the chance to win glory here, friend. Though in truth, I agree with you heartily. I had rather be upon the walls when they are taken then guarding those who do not seem to need it. However, we both have our duty, do we not?”

A tremendous crash forestalled any reply. “They are at the gate!” The captain stared wildly in the direction of the second gate of Fornost, as if his eyes could perceive the struggle taking place there. A fell light awoke in his eyes, and he was transformed. “No longer can I stand watch while Fornost falls! Master Elf, I lead my men to where they are needed. Make haste for the courts of the king, and the north-gate!” And, so saying, the captain gathered his force and sprinted for the gate. Angóre stood fast as they went, though his eyes followed them until they disappeared around the bend. “Happy are they who choose death over duty,” he said as the last of the men vanished, and he stood there a while longer, vying with himself, until at last he turned back into the hall.

The great hall lay bare, all the servants who could bear arms had joined in the defense of the city, and those who couldn’t had gone anyway, and done what they could. Another crash came from the direction of the gate. Angmar was knocking. Angóre could hear the distant sound of the brave men of the vanguard readying themselves, and another crash. Then the air was filled with the sounds of battle. The emissary appeared before him, clad in traveling clothes. “They have breached the second gate. Quickly, now, we must reach the third level of the city before we are overrun.” His voice betrayed no emotion; he might as well have been discussiong the weather. And, before she could respond, he had turned and was out the door.

The hall given to the elves was still a goodly distance from the gate, and the sounds of battle still echoed from that direction. The rearguard of the Dúnedain was holding, for the moment, but however valiant the Men were the massive horde of Angmar must overcome, at the last. For the moment, however, this meant the streets were empty, and Angóre lead his charge through the streets at a quick pace, making for the entrance to the uppermost city.

[piosenniel]

Lalwendë's post:

She heard her husband before she saw him. She heard his anguished cry echoing through the great hall from where he slumped in the doorway. At first she was irritated for she had been hurriedly stowing away some of their most precious belongings, hiding items in nooks within the cellar and packing others into what bags she could find. The work was hard but some sense of foreboding told her that it was necessary. This siege had been going on for too long and she felt that it was about to break. As her husband had left the house on the previous evening he had told her not to be so foolish, wasn’t he, after all, one of those very men who had been sworn to the defence of this city? He had shaken his head in frustration as she slipped into one of her bitter moods; his gentle assurances only ever seemed to make her more resolute, even angry at times. Fretting, she had woken in the early hours and set to work sorting through the tapestries, the silver and the scrolls of parchment.

Picking up the child, who was at her side as always, she hefted him onto her hip and hurried out of the cellar. The child did not stir; he was not yet a year old and still small for his age, and a more placid babe in arms she could not have hoped to have borne. He was wrapped in a layer of soft blankets and a fur, to protect him from the chill, damp air. Frowning at what troubles her husband may have brought to the door, she entered the great hall and cast her eyes about for him. He was lying in a broken heap, in the shadows by the door. He had fallen down where he stood, clearly besieged by some great hurt and her angry frown disappeared.

“What has happened?” she cried out, rushing to his side, clutching the child even more tightly. She crouched down beside the sturdy, tall man she had been married to these past twenty years, and pushed aside his cloak, which lay across his chest, concealing something.
An arrow head was buried there; the shaft, filthy and broken, poked out from between his ribs. Black and clotted blood stained his leather jerkin. She got up hurriedly, thinking to fetch a bowl of water with which to bathe him, but her husband caught her hand before she could get away.

“No, my girl,” her husband said with broken breaths. “It is too late for that. Already I feel the foul poison...ah…I feel it taking me. Too late. Better to stay with me now.”

“Where is your mail shirt?” said Renedwen, feeling confused, for as befitted his station as a Lieutenant, he normally wore more protection than the usual boiled leather jerkin. She tried to remember if he had left the house wearing it last night, but he had indeed done so, as always. He had seemed to live in the mail shirt these past few weeks of the siege. It had given her a feeling of comfort, even complacency, that he was protected by such a valuable and rare thing.

Her husband blinked his eyes slowly and sadly, and then looked at her with a look of contrition, for he felt sure that as usual, Renedwen would soon start to scold him harshly, as was her way. “I gave it to one of my men. I…was leaving my post to come to see you, to warn you. And I could not leave my second in command man there while I walked hither to my girl, protected from danger though I was in none.” She still did not understand how the arrow had then got into his chest, if it was safe enough to come here dressed so lightly. He continued “As I came by the gates, I saw the orcs, and they saw me and did this. Listen to me; this is the end of it all here. They cannot be held back much longer”

As he stopped talking, the sounds of desperate shouting, screaming and the crashing of metal upon stone and wood drifted up towards their home. No birds sang that noon, they had long since flown away, and no children were heard laughing and singing. For weeks the youth of the city had been like this, subdued and hungry, yet at least their voices were normally heard on the street. Today there was nothing but the panicked cries of the men.

Renedwen suddenly felt a fire in her stomach. She had never been demonstrative to her husband, had never really shown him how much she loved him, yet now here he lay, his head in her lap, and his life was running away from him as fast as his blood poured into his punctured lungs. She wanted to shout and stamp and rail against the whole world that this had come to pass, but she felt that ever gentle hand on her own, staying her temper.

“This no time to vent your anger. It is our last time together. My girl, you were right, “ he said, his eyes dimming. “The hour is upon us. We have failed our wives and sons, and failed our fathers, failed your father. You must take our son now and go to find your father, for he is old and will need help to escape this place. Our city is now become a tomb, and those who do not leave will perish. You should see the enemy. The hatred…” he gave off talking for a moment, not wanting to relate to her the evil in the faces of the enemy. “When I leave you, which will be soon, for I feel the world ebbing away, you will take my sword and you will go. I shall have no memorial. I do not want one. This is the only thing I have ever asked of you.”

Tears welled up in her brilliant blue eyes, as blue as the sapphire he had given her almost a year ago, and the sight of them made her husband gasp. She never cried in front of him, a marbled queen was what he called her, a name he thought was beautiful, and she would smirk with a hint of scorn whenever he said it.

“I shall hold the thought of your eyes in my heart and leave here bravely, on this stone threshold of our own small palace,” he smiled as he thought of how proud she was of their home with its arching windows and marble floors, the rooms stuffed with all the finery that his money could buy for her; it made her happy, he knew, to be surrounded by elegant, delicate things. And then the tears welled up his won eyes and a look of concern crossed his face.

“You know you must not stay here, not even to take up our possessions. None of that matters now, only that you and our boy get out of here,” He touched his son’s head tenderly; he had his father’s grey eyes, and he loved the boy. He knew that his wife’s heart burned for her love of the child, the only seeming living person who she felt this for, and that if he impressed on her how he would be vulnerable, then she would not tarry there.
“While my eyes have the light in them, let me see you both. Let me fill my sights with this, so that my last thought is not of orcish hordes and dying men but of my girl and my son.”

***

She pulled the finest of all their tapestries over the body of her husband, and laid a pillow beneath his head. Before she covered his face, she kissed him tenderly, and one hot tear fell from her nose onto his closed eyes. If such tears had held the power to revive then he would have awoken with a start, as they were infused with her sorrow; but this was no story, it was all too real.

Taking up her husband’s knife, she cut two locks of his dark hair and stowed them carefully in a little bag at her waist; she would later bind them into bracelets of remembrance for herself and their son. Finally covering his face with the tapestry she took up what little she had the heart to take, a bag of grain, blankets for the child and her husband’s sword and knife. Blind with tears, she left their home, locking the door behind her. Dimly she heard the now frantic cries of the men defending the city, and only vaguely did she notice the other people running to mobilise for evacuation, children grasped firmly by the hand, shouting in panic.

Pushing through the growing crowd, she found her way to her father’s house. The doors were closed and there seemed to be no sign of life within. Running to the lofty arched doorway, she pushed on the latch and went inside. The great hall was in darkness and it took her some time to adjust to this. It was not unusual, as the Captain often closed his doors and windows to the world; it usually signified he had a bad feeling about something, that he felt threatened.

“I knew you would come here,” the deep, elderly voice echoed from the back of the hall. “At the end of it all, I knew my daughter would come here.”

The Captain, tall but now thin and weakened by advanced age, sat imposingly on the settle, facing the door. His noble face was resolute and grim with foreboding. He could not see the face of who had entered, as the light coming from the opened door temporarily blinded his eyes, but he well knew the shape and movements of his own daughter. He wore his mail shirt, and his weapons were held ready at his side. Renedwen’s mother, old and frail, lay on the seat beside him, her head in his lap and her eyes dull. His hand lay on her head, smoothing her white hair. Nothing had been made ready for evacuation.

Renedwen ran towards her parents, all her tears spent, and her face reddened with the grief she was enduring. She sat down on the other side of her father, who briefly turned towards her and touched the head of the child with tenderness.

“You are going to ask me to leave,” he said. “But I shall not. I may be too aged to join the ranks out there, but I will not give up our home so lightly. Not if it is the last thing I do.”

“The last that we shall do…” her mother said sadly, but with a hint of determination. She too reached out to the child, and she smiled. Pulling herself up, she motioned for Renedwen to pass him to her, and she took him in her arms gently.

“Can you not hear the screams? It is time we left here. You know this,” said Renedwen, fear in her eyes. “He is gone. He is dead. I am alone but for who I have here. You must come with me now, it was his dying wish”.

Her father shook his head. “You are your father’s child. You knew it would come to this all along. You know I felt the same. Even now, your brothers are out there fighting, but they will never see an end to it. Not for them the quiet years of retirement that I have enjoyed. And who knows even now they may be walking in a greener place with your husband. But I am now content. My daughter is come at least.”

Again Renedwen pleaded with him, but he shook his head. He smiled at last, something which she had rarely seen from her solemn father. “You are yet young, and you have the hope of the child. I will not go. But you should.”

Renedwen looked to her mother, but she too shook her head. She was as resolute as her father, and would stay with him whatever he wanted. “I know not what will become of any of us, but you should take this little one and keep him safe.” she said.

The cries outside grew louder and seemed close to the house. Her father, with a grim look on his face, stood up, and gripped the hilt of his sword, ready for whatever may come. He looked at his daughter seriously, and bade her to stand up. Taking her into his arms, he held her tight for a moment, and she thought she felt a tear land on her face, but as they drew back, she could not be sure if he had finally given in to some hidden feeling and allowed himself to weep. His face was as serious as ever.

Motioning to her mother, he finally took his wife, daughter and grandchild in his arms. “We will not forget each other, and one day, on a green field, we shall all meet again. The days will be happier. The time of this city is over, and you know I cannot abandon it. But you must go. Go and seek what life you can beyond these walls.”

He had drawn closer to the door as he had taken them in his arms, and now he walked towards it with them. As he opened it, once again the afternoon light flooded in, bathing their faces in a warm glow. Renedwen turned once more to her parents, filled with dark panic that her child was in grave danger, yet needing this last moment before she turned and left them to their fate.

[piosenniel]

Arry's post

‘They come against us like the dark waves in winter against the cliffs and crags of Tol Fuin. Do they not, brother?’ Gaeredhel’s words came out in a quick, clipped fashion as he drew back his great bow and fired into the clamorous mass of Orcs that threw itself against the gates of the second level.

‘Yes, and if you recall it well, the waves that crash high against the shores of that drowned land oft overwhelm the smaller isle of Himring.’ Rôsgollo hunkered down, his back against the wall of the parapet, as he worked a piece of wax up and down his bowstring. In a moment, he was back on his feet, bow drawn, and aiming for the neck of one of the greater Orcs. He scarcely noted the grimacing creature as it crumpled to the ground. Already there were two or three more scrambling to take its place.

A voice to Gaeredhel’s right rose above the din of battle. ‘Don’t know ‘bout those waves you speak of. More like mindless flies to a pile of sheep dung, to my mind at least.’ ‘Aye,’ came the voice of another, ‘haven’t seen anything bigger than The Pool myself. But I was thinking they was just like them crows and ravens out there on the edges of the field . . .all noise and sharp beaks and beating of wings on a fallen rotting corpse.’

Despite the grimness of their situation, Gaeredhel laughed at the words of the two periain who stood near him, their own small bows delivering death to the dark foe. He glanced down at the Halfling bowmen as they stood on two bales of hay to make their shots over the parapet. ‘And I am thinking,’ the Elf said, ‘that the Periannath do not care overmuch for the buildings of men. Pile of sheep dung? A rotting corpse?’

‘Unnatural, I says,’ commented another Halfling sent with arrows to replenish his companions’ quivers. ‘Building up houses and towns so far above the ground. Just asking to be knocked down.’ He walked the line of bowmen from the Shire, handing out his supply of repaired arrows. ‘Not like the Shire, mind you,’ he said looping back to where the Elves stood. ‘Lovely smials there, dug deep in the good earth. And what buildings there be are low-like, if you catch my meaning. Not all stuck up like some great whacking challenge to other bully-boys.’

The Elves and Halfings fell back from the wall, another line of bowmen, Dunedain, flowed in about them, allowing little pause in the routine of battle. Rôsgollo crouched down, as did his brother, and took the offered skin of water from one of the Halflings. ‘So how is it then,’ he said, passing round some waybread from his own pouch, ‘that bowmen from the Shire have come to defend this city of Men?’

One of the Halflings stood up from his group. He looked much like his fellows, brown haired, sharp brown eyes, a good natured face beneath the strain that war imposes. Save for the small white feather stuck firmly in the band of his small slouch hat, he was nearly indistinguishable from the others of his company. ‘Wilibold Brownlock, master Elves,’ he said nodding at the brothers. He’d taken off his hat by this time and turned the brim of it in his hands, more as a matter of hesitancy than nervousness. ‘Captain, I am of this rag-tag group. Pardon our plain talk to you if it offended. It was just the yammering of one soldier to another in the press of battle.’

Rôsgollo dismissed the apology with a small wave of his hand. ‘No offense taken.’ He looked about the city, his eyes straying up to the top level from which rose the King’s towers. To be honest, I cannot say the structure is much to my liking either.’ He settled down on his haunches, gesturing that the Halfing do so, too. ‘But my question still stands, Captain Brownlock. How came you here? You and your band of keen-eyed archers?’

‘Well, I’ll let old Rory speak to that,’ returned the Captain, motioning for one of the older looking Halfings to come forth. ‘He’s our record keeper, so to speak. Knows the whys and wherefores of goings on in the Shire. Keeps a journal, like his old gaffer and those before him. Writes down important dates and the stories that go with them.’

Rory fished through the large pouch slung from a strap round his shoulder and pulled out a battered, brown leather covered journal. ‘Now this is just my family’s field notes here,’ he said thumbing through the first section of the well worn book. There were pages and pages of faded, crabbed handwriting, down which he moved his ink-stained forefinger. ‘It was old Argeleb . . .number two, I believe if I read these scratchings right, that granted Marcho and Blanco, then of Bree-land, the right to cross the Brandywine River and take the land from the river to the Far Downs into their keeping. Anyways he was the king up here in Fornost back then and we were . . . are his subjects. And I must say his hand and the hands of the others after him always rested lightly on the Shire. Didn’t ask much of us really. It was a bigger kingdom then, you know, before it fell apart. Arthedain, they called it’ He turned a few more pages. ‘Now this king, Arvedui, he’s the king of one of the last good parts of the old north kingdom. It’s to him we still swear loyalty. And when he sent the call out to our Chieftains for aid a month or so ago, we came.’ He looked about at the small band of his battle-worn companions. ‘Not many of us left now.’ He closed the journal carefully, tying it securely with a piece of sturdy twine. ‘But they’re all recorded here . . . those what’s fallen . . . and their deeds. Cold comfort for their families . . . though, mayhap they will take some comfort that the king remained protected while still they drew their bows and breath.’ There was little comment as Rory finished speaking; only the thoughtful silence of warriors to whom the same fate still may await.

Too soon, the brief respite ended as the group rose to take their places back at the wall. The groaning and cracking of the great doors that still held against the foe had intensified, as had the increasingly triumphant bellows of the Orc host. One of the Halflings nearer the gate came running to where the Elven brothers stood bow to bow with Wilibold and a few of his men. ‘Cap’n! Cap’n!’ he cried, panting for breath as he came to a halt. ‘The King’s men have come down from the top level. All the Elves and survivors of the city are to retreat there . . . the Orcs will soon take this second ring . . . the King means to retreat to a safer place, or so the news flies along the lines.’

‘We must hasten, then,’ Rôsgollo urged his brother. Our charge must be found and taken up as the King requested. ‘Look round the west way, brother,’ Gaeredhel called as he started off to the east. ‘I’ll meet you at the western entrance to the King’s level.’ Rôsgollo hurried off, his eyes searching out the counselor. His brother paused for a moment, returning to where the Halflings held their line against the parapet. ‘Will you not be calling your men in?’ he asked the Captain. ‘Gathering them up for retreat? Shall we meet you up there?’ he finished, nodding his head up toward the towers.

‘We are swift of foot, good Elf,’ Wilibold assured him. ‘Let us hold out here a little longer until others have been brought to safety. We can make it before the gates are shut against the foe.’

Gaeredhel gave the Halfling a small bow then turning quickly began his search for the counselor. ‘To me, bowmen of the Shire!’ he heard the Captain call out, rallying his companions to take up places closer to the groaning gates. ‘Places lads! For the King and the Shire!’

[piosenniel]

Nilpaurion Felagund’s post:

It seems to be her fate to be stuck in sieges.

Bethiril was less than a year old when Morgoth unleashed his might and destroyed Gondolin in a short and bitter siege. She had been with her lord Elrond when Gil-galad’s expeditionary force to Eregion was driven away by Sauron’s Orcs to the feet of the Misty Mountains and contained there for three years.

And now this.

She and her guard had been caught on the walls of the highest level when the Orcs finally broke through the second wall of Fornost Erain. She had just been in the city a few weeks before, hammering out the final details of the alliance that all had hoped would crush the menace of Angmar with great fists from the West and the East.

It seems that the treaty had been too late. In Bethiril’s eyes, the might of the Dúnedain of the North had crumbled with their walls.

“Milady, we must now flee to the King’s courts,” her guard pleaded, knowing the great danger of staying in the open.

Bethiril did not stir. She watched as the black tide flowed through the breach of the dike. The siege weapons far behind rolled a few furlongs forward, and then stopped.

She was raging inside, though none could guess from her impassive gaze. How she hated the tumult of battle! How she hated lives being cut down by the thousands before their time, when the chances of the world were enough trouble for Elves and Men.

A boulder crashed a few feet below her. The stone wall of the Norbury of the Kings seemed to have endured the blow, but she saw cracks appear in it, the ravages of war seeking to increase its foothold in this great city of Men. Soon, this, too, shall crumble.

“Yes, we must,” she said, turning suddenly around and walking swiftly ahead of her guard to the King’s sanctum.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post

Erenor had held herself in readiness for this long expected day and she was ready to leave. Her possessions were sparse and she had abandoned all that would not be useful in whatever circumstance lay ahead. Left in her chamber were robes of state and she had burnt many documents - all were useless now but she would not have them fall in the hands of the enemy. Dressed in warm travelling clothes, a tunic covering her mailshirt and buckled her sword belt, she shouldered her pack and covered all with a great cloak lined with fur before venturing out to see the state of play.

We have reached endgame at last thought Erenor. She had suspected that defense of the city would prove futile and she had counselled that the city be evacuated sooner, but the king was stubborn and as long as her remained, her duty was to remain as emissary. But there should not be women and children here she thought - mortal women at least. It was not the sights of battle that disturbed her so much as the sound and smell. Part of her wished to join the fight and she would have done had she seen a chance of success. But in such desperate straits, she deemed it better to live to fight another day, but flight was not likely to be a safe option either. Battle would come to her like as not.

She was glad to see Angore she had long noted similarities in temperament and their names had similar meaning. She was not at all offended by his brusque directions and followed with swift feet. There was no time for flowery diplomatic language now. Erenor felt a greater sympathy with her taciturn guard than her fellow emissary. She felt her refusal to bear arms an affectation, a luxury only possible for one surrounded by those who did not share such scruples. Yet she held her tongue; Berethil outranked her in age, blood and experience. At least she hoped she would have made it to the sanctum. The enemy were ever nearer.

[piosenniel]

alaklondewen's post

Ereglin had spent the greater part of the day in anticipation of a call from the king for council. In the early morning, he had surveyed the enemy’s forces from top of the second wall. Wave after wave, the horrid black creatures climbed, scratched, and attacked the walls of the city. Even with the aid of the Elven guard and the halfling army, the forces would not be able to withstand the fury of the enemy for much longer. With this understanding, the Councilor had prepared himself to stand before the king, because surely Arvedui would wish to have Elven guidance with a decision of such importance as what the final move of the city should be. He had sent his guards to fight on the wall in the late morning, and he would await the kings guard to escort him to Arvedui’s towers.

~*~*~

The sun was waning, and the late afternoon light lit the Emissary’s hall with a warm orange glow. Ereglin stood silently in the shadows still waiting for his call to council. He knew it was too late, and he felt like a bitter fool because of it. Many winters had come and gone since Ereglin had come to that city, and he clenched his teeth as he thought of time and energy he spent on the alliance between Lindon and Arthedain and what he had let go so the job would be done...

Ereglin took a deep breath. The clamor in the city was becoming much closer, and the assaults against the wall shook the foundation of the Elf’s hall. Unconsciously his hand slid under his robe and gripped the leather hilt of his sword. A choice would have to be made soon, and if the king wished for one last stand, he would fight once again, alongside his guards. The idea was displeasing. He was a skilled bowman and spent several hours a week in exercise with his sword, so it was not that he did not have the ability. It was not that he was a coward, for he feared not death nor pain. However, his place was at a table with the intellectual, political minds, not in hand to hand combat with filthy beasts.

The Emissary sighed again, and a knock at his door demanded his attention. “Come in.” He called, and a slight hope rose in his chest that one of the king’s guards would enter, summoning him to council.

“Councilor Ereglin, I am pleased to find you here.” One of his young guards strode quickly before him with eyes flashing with adrenaline.

“I would not be elsewhere, Gaeredhel.” Ereglin spoke under his breath, and then he hoped the young guard did not catch the bitterness in his voice. Swallowing the virulence he felt, the Councilor spoke again, more smoothly than before. “What tidings do you bring?”

“The king, sir...he has called for a retreat to the north gate.”

“Very well.” For the third time, Ereglin took a deep breath before he followed Gaeredhel out of the hall and into the streets.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post

Carthor gently shook his broad shoulders in an effort to warm himself. As he did so, a fine layer of snow fell from the heavy fur cloak draped over his armour, falling like sifted flour to the white clad ground. The steel of Carthor’s helm lay piercingly cold upon his head, the freezing nasal causing the bridge of his nose to become numb. Carthor’s gaze lifted from the snow-covered flagstones in front of his feet and looked out across the scene in front of him. The red light from the many burnings throughout the city illuminated his shadowed face, turning his burnished helm blood red. Other men of the rearguard crowded around Carthor’s bulk, all locked away in the private horror of what was befalling. Fornost was dying. Seven hundreds there were standing there, men of the hardy Vanguard of the city, by the gate of the second tier of Fornost, awaiting the brutal foe that was ravaging the first levels of the once fair city. The fires in the lower level poured out a thick black reek, adding its light quelling mass to the already blackened sky. The screams of the dying could still be heard from below. The host of Angmar was drawing out its glorious defilement, in no rush to halt the slaughter. The sun blared sickly and red through the masses of ash filled smoke above, glinting off helms and blades, adding to the already blood-soaked weapons of the orcs.

Carthor was dragged suddenly from his musings as an arrow thudded into the neck of a nearby man, his hot red blood pouring in bursts onto the cobble stones around him in accordance with the life pouring out of his soul. Comrades were covered in it as they rushed to his aid, the salty liquid bitter and burning in their eyes. Still more arrows fell amongst the men, and soon thoughts of aiding friends were exchanged for those of self preservation. Carthor merely adjusted his shield in a more skyward angle and clenched his teeth. This waiting was futile, and only prolonged the fear – already the stench of those who had unwillingly relieved themselves was almost solid in the air. Carthor thought it better to meet your fate sooner than live in fear of the inevitable. Better to die defending the stone of your beloved home than pent up in some hole, or surrounded in the bitter cold waste of the north. The stones below his feet, well laid and smooth could be felt through the thin leather of Carthor’s boots. Closing his eyes, he pawed at the ground with the balls of his feet, the well-known feeling, taking in the last ounce of familiarity, becoming one with the streets of his life-long home. For indeed, it seemed to Carthor now that his home would soon be bereft of all familiarity, would soon become the home of evil things – a city of filth.

The ram booming against the gate to the second layer crashed through the wood and iron mass that held back the torrent of death beyond.
“Men of Fornost!” A voice rang out through the dim light. “Draw thy swords!!”

BOOM

The ringing of steel from scabbard at that time was enough to stir the heart of even the most downcast of the men present.

“For it is now that we make such an end as is worthy of the folk of Numenor - such an end as to be worthy of the minstrels, though none be with living breath enough in the north to sing of it.”

BOOM

“For we, men of the Vanguard, are all that now stands against the filth that would take our homes, defile the houses of our fathers and spread a plague across our lands, the lands we have fought for these many long winters!” “Remember the bodies of your comrades strewn through the snow of our eastern marches, remember the burnt homesteads of our lands – remember the spirits of all those of our kindred slaughtered by this reckless, hateful foe.”

BOOM

“Do not let these memories die! Do not let their sacrifices go in vain! For today my friends, we fight for glory and death. For our city and our people! FOR FORNOST!!!” And as the last words were said, the voice raised to such a tumultuous bellow that the swords of those standing rang out in accord. “FOR FORNOST!!!” The cry came like a thunder clap, like the hooves of the steed of Oromë, as all the voices of the Vanguard rang out together as one.

And so it was that the gate to the second level of Fornost crashed down in ruin upon the feet of the Vanguard of the King. Angmar had broken a dam. The Numenoreans surged forth like stampeding kine into the waiting arms of their besiegers. Like ants swarming over a hillock the great ram was consumed and with it the many orcs around it. The Vanguard plunged through the host of Angmar into the first tier and with it plunged Carthor, son of Aldathor. The orcs holding the gate were rampant in their destruction and were caught unawares, falling back under the wrath of the Numenoreans, swept away like dust in a strong wind, like fuel in a fire.

Dark blood already stained Carthor’s sword, and he went to work with the hand of a seasoned soldier – large strokes and glorious thrusts were a grand way to meet one’s maker, instead, Carthor functioned with the no-nonsense manner he applied to everything. His strokes were controlled and energy efficient, small thrusts flowed into hacking blows and back into parries. Few could withstand Carthor and his mechanical, tick-tock fighting style. No sound passed his lips, pursed in concentration, not a cry was uttered from his throat as he slowly advanced through the ranks of Angmar. A great brutish orc-chieftain stood barring the way of the Vanguard, cleaving those Numenoreans who neared him with a great black flanged mace. Moving aside as the mace whistled past his ear, splintering the ribs of the man next to him, Carthor made a single, deft slash across the brute’s unprotected skull, cleaving a great gash in its left side. With the fall of their captain, many of the orcs fled in terror, more than some fell with black fletched arrows in their chests and white fletched arrows in their backs. The Vanguard halted momentarily to consolidate their strength. Black arrows fell amongst the men, many finding marks. The already dim sky was almost blackened with their bulk as the whistling hornets thudded into shield and chest alike. The forces of Angmar closest to the gate, which now was no more than seventy yards behind the Vanguard, had receded into the shadow of one of the few double storey buildings on the first tier. From here the archers of Angmar brought ruin on the Vanguard, and the men there fell like trees in a forest owned by a timber hungry lord. This building was upon a chief corner shared by the thoroughfare leading to the gates and another prominent byway. The building would be of great use in the prolongation of the fall of the second tier. With shields pressed tightly against one another the vanguard of the Vanguard pressed forth like a wedge towards the looming shape of the building, around which forces at least twice the size of the Vanguard still swarmed. Forwards crawled the Vanguard of Fornost, creeping towards its goal like some immense beast. For every man that fell there to the archers of Angmar, another there was to take his place in the cramped street. The orcs broke like a wave upon the prow of a mighty ship against the steeled ranks of the Vanguard.

Sweat mingled with blood on Carthor’s face, stinging his eyes. The leather under his right hand became slippery with moisture and his knuckles whitened as he gripped the weapon harder. Quickly thrusting into the soft belly of an orc in the midst of a powerful strike, Carthor found himself facing a small, wiry orc of no more than five foot in height. The orc wore leather armour from head to toe, something odd in the maggot folk of Angmar. In its right hand the creature bore a curved, crude scimitar similar to those of his kindred, however, much un-akin to his kind it bore in his left a long, straight dagger with complex guard arrangement designed to entangle an opponent’s weapon. The orc had a look of intelligent ferocity Carthor had seldom seen in its kind. Already the pile of dead Vanguard at this creature’s steel clad feet was large. Wasting no time, Carthor skirted just to his right, parrying a blow from another adversary, and gained a slight angle on the smaller orc. Even throughout having to dispatch two Vanguard, the orc remained fixated on Carthor’s powerful frame. The vile creature slowly inched forwards, probing first with its scimitar into Carthor’s defenses. Finding them, to none of its surprise, quite impenetrable from the forward quarter, the brute tried a quick faint right and downwards before lunging forwards and in on itself. Carthor read the move only at the last, this creature was crafty, and quickly launched a probing lunge of his own. Carthor was suddenly surprised at the ease with which the penetrated this brute’s defenses, it was only at the last second that he saw the long knife on its disguised trajectory towards his abdomen. Carthor slammed the base of his shield down upon the left arm of the orc in its thrust and rolled to his right at the timely moment, his sword hand moving into a stab at the creature’s left flank. The satisfying shock ran familiarly up the length of Carthor’s broadsword. Disentangling himself from the groping limbs of the dying orc, Carthor stepped back. The disgusting creature’s weapons lay forsaken and discarded next to the thing as it slumped down on its knees, both hands attempting to hold its pouring innards into the great slash in its left abdomen. Carthor’s blade whistled as it smashed down upon the creature’s exposed neck, severing flesh and sinew.

Carthor looked around him. The vanguard of the host of Angmar lay dead or dying around him and his fellows. The enemy gathered around the large building had been destroyed or had fled back towards the outer gate. The black arrows that had sped screaming from the upper windows of the building had been silenced by the bright steel of the Vanguard. At the building’s door stood the red and gold banner of the regiment, tattered and bloody, yet glorious in its triumph. The brief respite was opportunity for the archers of the regiment to collect arrow from amongst the slain, many having to resort to the shorter, black tailed arrows of the maggot folk. Wasting no time, Carthor helped order the men back into makeshift companies and fortify the newly taken building, spreading the bulk of the force on the walls facing the outer gate and the thoroughfare.

The glory of the Vanguard however soon became bitter in the mouths of those present. Clearly visible from the upper windows of the building, the host of Angmar was regrouping, and joined by masses of troops from other parts of the tier, was now slowly advancing in organized lines and columns. The numbers of the enemy could only be guessed at in the ruddy light but it seemed that the Vanguard was outnumbered by anything up to twenty to one. Not liking to be holed up, Carthor stood in the middle of the crossroads, which in peacetime was a market square, and surveyed the scene. The force marching upwards towards the Vanguard came bearing torches, setting those building they passed alight. The stench of burning flesh was rancid in the thick air. Screams began to eminate from the windows above him.

‘Well, this is what we are here for.’ Mused Carthor. ‘A glorious death. Somehow it doesn’t seem so glorious to them now…’

The first of the arrows fell blazing through the air and scattered on the cobble stones many yards in front of the first of the Vanguard. The Numenorean bows sang in answer, yet the falling orcs were but leaves off the greater tree. Still, perhaps a branch or two could be severed from that tree before the Vanguard’s end ultimately came…

Once again Carthor’s musings were rudely broken, this time by the masses of raging orcs slamming into the Vanguard. It was the Vanguard that was this time smitten. The host of Angmar was brutal in its fury, breaking both blade and bone, both shield and skull. Slowly the Vanguard fell back under the force of the thrust. Half of its number was killed in that initial charge, the rest it seemed, were soon to join them.

Carthor had his back almost hard up against the stone wall of the building, the ground in front of him a teeming sea of death. The cobbles underfoot ran red with the blood of the Vanguard. Torches were hurled into the upper windows of the building, most falling useless, but others caught before a member of the Vanguard could hastily stamp them out, and soon parts of the upper level were ablaze. It was then that the first of the onagers opened up on the building, their airborne missiles reaping havoc on the white masonry. Carthor disbanded a great orc who had made a daring swipe at his neck. Carthor had ducked in time, but the blow had landed across his protected crown, dazing him somewhat. Dazed or not, the tip of his blade had still found its way into the soft throat of the brute. Lights flashed in his mind, and the scene swirled…

Carthor!

A voice called his name, either in his befuddled head or in the waking world, he was unsure.

Carthor!

Staggering, he moved towards where the voice seemed to be calling from.

Carthor!!

The tone of the voice had suddenly changed to that of pleading. Someone needed him…
Carthor son of Aldathor pressed forwards under the eaves of the great building, unseen or unheeded by the masses of foes around him.

A great stone, hurled through the murky air and smashed into the crumbling wall of the building. Debris, both wood and stone, crashed its fiery ruin upon the cobbled street. A large beam fell crashing on Carthor’s helmed head and he fell to the ground.

Horns… Horns blowing… Have I met the hunting party of Oromë at last?

Darkness took Carthor son of Aldathor and he knew no more…

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial's post

Faerim threw himself down against the remains of the wall he had posted himself behind, his hands covering his head, as the top of the wall exploded and the rubble rained down on his light hair and face. Scrabbling back onto his knees, the youth brushed the debris from his clothes hastily and peered forward through what had been an arrow slit in the wall. His light eyes scanned outwards across the lower level and beyond, and widened as his gaze followed the black masses further and further outwards. His skin paled further beneath the light spattering of freckles as the full extent of the black army, and how little they seemed affected by the desperate army of Fornost – or what was little of them. Beneath him, on the lower level where a few orcs had breached the walls, chaos reigned: houses burned and smoked, the fell flood surged over the rubble, and from above, Faerim could hear the screams of those who had fallen prey to the catapult shots and arrows of the enemy. And all the time came that irrepressable booming of the ram hitting the gates...

Wrenching his horrified gaze from the scene below and turning his back to the wall, the youth pulled open his quiver of arrows and counted those that remained – a laughable four, and one so cracked that he doubted it would fly. He swore under his breath and looked back through the arrow slit to the lower level. Loading his bow with arrow number one, he scanned the area and picked out one particularly despicable individual who, along with a second orc, was hacking at the door of a house with a pitted axe. The opposite of his younger brother, Faerim’s sight was excellent, so that some had sniped before that the seventeen year old had got the eyesight for the both of them: as a result of his eyesight, the youth could see every detail of the vile creature, down to fresh bloodstains around it’s hands. Feeling sick at the thought of whose blood that might be, the young man sighted briefly and fired.

The orc fell backwards with a satisfying yell, the axe falling from it’s stumpy digits as it clutched, unseeing, at the arrow now embedded deep in it’s chest. Beside it, orc number two gave a snarl of surprise and followed the line of the arrow upwards until it came eye to eye with Faerim. He could feel it’s eyes on him through the arrow slit, but it wouldn’t last for long: defiant until the last, the archer gave a quick wink and loosed his second precious arrow. Not waiting to see whether it found it’s mark, he looked about searched the lower area and prepared to let off one more of his arrows towards another orc. But as he did so, a deafening scream came from along the wall beside him and a soldier toppled off, a crossbow bolt buried in his chest. The sound caused Faerim to jump at the last second almost wasting the shot. Twisting his mouth in irritation, the young man re-sighted, his muscles tensed to shoot-

The gates swung open.

With yells from the men and inhuma roars from the black hordes, the enemy poured into the city of Fornost. Faerim's arrow fly awry, lost in the masses, but the youth barely noticed, his horrified eyes fixed on ther scene below as beasts twice as tall as a man attacked the army of his city, battering them aside with brutal weapons. And his father was below...

Faerim took a deep breath and strung his bow with the fourth arrow – and then realised that it was indeed his last. Have to be careful when you’re out on a limb, that’s what Brander—

Brander. Dammit, his younger brother – where was he? He had been in the manor house, with their mother, but now…a fresh sluice of fear washed over Faerim. His father would be fighting in the frey below, a swordsman as he was, but at least he had some way of protecting himself - but a vivid image of the orcs, flowing from every side into the room around his blind brother, drove itself into his mind. Brander wouldn't stand a chance. Saving the last arrow, the Dunedain youth checked his sword and, in a strange crouched position, ran across to the shelter nearest to the wall where he had been crouched. Darting inside, he slipped quickly past the other soldiers there, taking on a busy air that meant none stopped him, the sprinted across the courtyard at the back towards the street of larger houses on the second level on the outer wall.

Of course, Faerim was under no impressions of his brother being helpless – for years, Brander had made it painfully clear, both to his older brother and to his parents, that he was determined to be as independent as possible. But, Faerim mused angrily, that independence – being able to look after himself in a domestic situation – was frankly worth nothing in this situation. What Faerim valued – his strength, agility, speed and skill with weapons – were nothing to Brander: a sword, or even a knife, would be more of a liability that an aid to the blind boy.

The white stone of a beautifully delicate, ancient spire, reaching so high it split the sky, suddenly shattered as a barrage of stones hit it. The debris pratically exploded and huge chunks of the base fell to the ground, coming so close to crushing Faerim that his cloak caught beneath it as he rolled agiley, coming to rest on one knee in the shadow of one of the houses. Breathlessly, without taking time to compose himself, he wrenched his cloak from beneath the shattered remains of the face of some ancient statue and kicked the side door of the house open. Half jogging in, he heard a noise from the landing above and fell to a crouch to slip one of his knives from the inside of his left boot. Satisfied that the noise had ceased, he took the stairs of the grand, sweeping staircase three at a time, cloak flying out behind him as he yelled for his brother – it was only a matter of time before the enemy broke through, and surely one of the captains would have arranged something? Either way, he needed to find out and bearing in mind he hadn’t an idea where his father might be now, he needed to make sure Brander and his mother were safe. “Brander? Brander!”

[piosenniel]

Nuranar's post

Lissi had been up since before dawn. The hideous clamor of battle reverberated through the air and penetrated every corner of the house. Tremors ran through the floor and walls as the city trembled with each projectile’s impact. Even the heavy storm shutters could not shut out the hellish glare of the fires. The red glow gave her bedroom such an alien appearance that Lissi buried her head in the blankets to shut the terrifying vision out. An instant later she jerked upright in shame and pride and slid out of bed. If she could not sleep, at least she would not cower in bed like a child afraid of shadows!

Lissi pattered across the room and defiantly flung open the shutters. Then she dressed with deliberate concentration in the weird light. Close-fitting underdress, deep red wool, laced on both sides, tight buttoned-up sleeves. Dark brown overdress, front-lacing, flared sleeves. Woolen hose and leather shoes. Small work knife, hanging from an old leather belt, around her waist. Heavy shawl around her shoulders, held together in the front by a brooch. Lissi laced every lace, buttoned every button, and arranged every fold of her raiment with scrupulous care. Moving to the polished metal mirror hanging on her wall, she arranged her hair. The white face she saw, framed by little natural curls, gazed back with calm approval as she braided her long black tresses into two braids and tied on her winter hood. Then for a moment Lissi’s busy fingers stopped, and she bowed her head.

A dull splintering thud rattled the furniture. The next instant Lissi found herself on the balcony in the next room, grey eyes straining to see the battle in the lurid light of the flames. Until the weak light of the winter sun illumined the heavy grey clouds, Lissi stayed on the balconey. She paced the whole time. At first she told herself she was keeping warm. But as she paced she thought, and as she thought her stride grew faster with nervous energy. If she only knew exactly what was happening! All she could do now was think – and think – and think.

For weeks Lissi had been thinking. It began with planning, then went to packing, but the thinking never stopped: thinking, always thinking – pondering the siege, imagining scenarios, devising a response to every one, preparing for every eventuality, desperately seeking a way to escape. Escape! What she wanted most in the world, and what she could not find. Despite all her intelligence, she could think of no escape. On the contrary, the merciless logic of her mind only built up the evidence of defeat. Of all helpless feelings this was the worst. The city was crumbling around her, her people were dying, the enemy was coming – and she could do nothing.

If she was fated to escape, escape would have to come to her, for she knew not where to find it. And if it came she would be ready. She had several packs ready to leave, and her husband’s stave was ever to hand. At the last she would leave the house, she and her blind son Brander. Lissi had scarcely seen her husband Carthor since the siege began, although she knew that if he had fallen word would have come. And her other son Faerim – he, too, was fighting, although he often came home to check on them.

But when the pale grey light of winter touched the cracked and scorched walls, she resolutely for herself from her perch. “Madam Lissielle, you will drive yourself mad if you continue in this way,” she scolded as she fled down the stairs. “You will go scrub that filthy kitchen floor until it shines, or until…” She broke off, then gave her head a little shake and hurried into the kitchen.

Ironically enough, Lissi found intense relief in her task. After laying aside her cloak – the exercise would keep her warm – and rolling up her sleeves, she threw herself into her work. She tended the fire, heated water, scrubbed the worn brick floor, and rinsed it clean with a zeal and absorption far from usual. Her anger and fear found release in attacking the mud and grease and soot that spotted the floor, and the harder she scrubbed the harder it was to hear the commotion outside. And nothing occurred to interrupt her. The house itself was almost eerily silent, Brander’s quiet movements upstairs almost unheard.

Lissi’s movements became more mechanical. She recalled her first sight of the hordes of Angmar: Rising from the eastern horizon, they spread like a black wave across the fields where she had been wont to ride, darkened the bare and lifeless land, and poured relentlessly on, lapping even at the Fornost walls. In that moment she had not felt terror. She had scarcely been afraid. But she knew. With the blood-knowledge and instinct of a hundred generations of warriors, she saw the remorseless inevitability of the coming defeat. She stood alone in that knowledge and looked into it without flinching. That evening Lissi had bade her dear husband farewell – for he was dear, if not beloved – with a smile, and watched him march to the defense of the walls. But she lay awake all night. The bitter import of defeat did not register until the darkest hour, just before dawn. And then she wept, in slow, anguished sobs, for the sheer heartbreak and tragedy of it all. But she had not shed a tear since. She only thought.

With a sigh Lissi rose to her feet, finished. As she tidied up the kitchen she felt the old gentle pride of a gentler time, the serene knowledge of a job well done. Smiling at herself, only half mockingly, she rolled down her sleeves and rearranged her clothes. Lissi was buttoning her sleeve when a crash sounded from the other side of the house, followed by quick footsteps and then silence. Side door, she thought, even as she slipped out of the kitchen, heart throbbing painfully. She had just lifted down Carthor’s bladed stave when Faerim’s voice echoed through the house. “Brander? Brander!”

Lissi gasped in relief, clutching the reassuring weight of the stave. She dashed out to the hall just in time to see her elder son vanish up the stairs, still calling for his brother. “Son! Faerim! What is it?” she cried. He was still safe! And news – at last!

[piosenniel]

Novnarwen's post

Brander had been sitting on a wooden stool for several hours now, in the middle of the bedroom, second floor of his family’s residence. Silently, he listened to the noises that filled the air. By hearing the sound of steel against steel, the cries of pain and roars of either personal victory or of horror, the blind boy managed to make images in his head of every aspect of the battle. He could almost see the soldiers struggling against hordes of Angmar, trying to manoeuvre the enemy into defeat. He could see everything so clearly, probably clearer than others who had a perfect vision; the sky was dark, choking every happy moment in the soldiers’ memory as they fought what seemed to be an endless battle. As a carpet, the heavy clouds lay floating over them, deep and threatening, suppressing every good feeling which still remained in their tired bodies. Fright and terror took command over them and forced the men to turn around to meet their worst fear; not the orcs themselves, but death. Death and defeat. They knew in their hearts that they, soldiers, were the symbol of hope during this battle; if they were defeated, there would be no hope left.

At times when he sat there, quietly by himself, feeling useless and weak, his brother, Faerim, and his father, Carthor, appeared in a long series of images, both in the ongoing battle. Did any of the cries of pain and despair belong to them? He wondered. Brander had never cared much for his father. He neither loved nor hated him. Indifference, one could call it. Now however, realising that death was so close, he felt badly about his feelings towards the man who had bred and fed him. Was he not grateful for what his father, and mother, had given him? To some extent he was, Brander admitted. The problem was not what Carthor had given him, it was what he hadn’t, which, in Brander’s eyes, were far more important than other things. His father had never given him what most fathers gave their sons, such as confidence, trust and responsibility. Carthor had never been proud of him either, partly because Brander had never really achieved anything significant, which was most due to his blindness, but Carthor had never given him the chance to do anything either. Brander tried being independent, tried trusting his own abilities more than others’ willingness to help, but it was hard when he was always being looked down on, not only by his father, but also by others. Society in general seemed to hate the fact that he was blind and decided thus to ignore him. He was educated and young; it should not be hard for a man like himself to get work. In his case it was however. Brander had tried many a time, but everything had resulted in the same manner.

He closed his eyes hard, tried thinking about something else; in fact, anything else. His mind failed him. His father was out there; he was indifferent about what happened to him. He hoped on the other hand, that his brother would return home safely. He and his mother Lissi had expected Faerim for the last hour, but his brother had not come back. What ill has befallen him? Brander wondered. Even though his brother was always favoured by their father, he loved his brother. There were few who treated him the way he did, equally and with respect. If Faerim died, Brander would also.

**

Slowly, time went by. It seemed that while he’d been sitting on the stool, thinking about his brother and father and listening to the sounds from the ever growing battlefield just inside the walls of Fornost, he had forgotten how hungry and how tired he was. Now drowsiness was sneaking upon him, as a sly enemy, making his eyelids heavy. He stood up and walked silently over to the bed in the corner of the room. His brother would come; in the meantime, he could sleep.

Everything he’d heard when being awake, the sound of the wall falling and the men crying, had surely been tucked into his sub consciousness and was currently depriving him of the good sleep usually brings. The images he had so effectively and eagerly created, haunted him. The uneasiness he felt could be seen as pearls of sweat bathed his forehead and doubled quickly in number. He lay trembling with fear as the face, or the image, of Faerim appeared in front of him. His whole figure seemed to rise up in front of him, enlarging by every second passing. Suddenly, a bow, right in front of him, was spent. An arrow, as fast as the eagles fly, ran through the air, almost touching the dark clouds; its target had been carefully planned in advance. A scream of horror echoed. A man sunk to the ground, his face halfway buried in the sand. He writhed in pain, rolling back and forth, until he rolled no longer. The features in his sombre face could be determined by a weak source of light; the image of the pale face belonged to without a doubt his dear brother Faerim.

Brander opened his eyes wide. With tears in his eyes, he realised that the arrow had not been sent by his brother; the bow had been spent by an unknown enemy, hidden in the shadows. He rose quickly to his feet, greatly alarmed by this frightening, but yet realistic dream. “It cannot be true,” he muttered to himself, “It cannot.” He wanted to call for his mother, but the thought of making her worried with his dream, seemed to be the dumbest thing he could do. After all, it was only a dream. Nothing more. When thinking it through though, he realised that the man in the dream might as well have been his father. I’m blind, he thought, I don’t know how either of them look like. It’s only an image, an image of a person I don’t know. This seemed to comfort him, and with renewed hope in seeing his brother come home soon, he took his position on the stool again and waited.

[piosenniel]

Saurreg's post:

The hellish tongues of flames licked the smog-filled sky lustily and illuminated the remaining buildings and standing walls of the lower city with an eerie glow. At the base of the south gate, thousands of Arthedain soldiers charged into glorious combat like an unstoppable torrent bursting from a dam. Their shiny helms shone fiery bright with the reflected light from the fires as did their ready weapons. Onwards they charged, and a host of war cries greeted the darkened sky air, joining in the distinct blare of countless brass, the powerful treble of war drums and the earthshaking reverberation of metallic soled feet thundering across the city ground. Arthedain was on the attack again and the Rearguard was leading.

Belegorn let out a roar and lowered his sword onto the head of a hapless orc sprawled at the base of his feet. The sharp blade cleaved through the black iron helm effortlessly and split the vile creature’s head in two. Just as the first lieutenant delivered the coup de grâce to his latest victim, a huge man – an easterling mercenary of Angmar no doubt, charged towards him with both hands grasping a huge bloodstained battleaxe. Bellowing like a feral beast, the fearsome warrior attempted to smite Belegorn with a single blow from his dreadful weapon but the Dúnedain leapt agility aside in the nick of time. The great axe missed and its bit met and penetrated the ground instead, throwing its wielder off balance. Grabbing the greasy locks of his assailant with his powerful left hand, Belegorn yanked forcefully and tilted the man’s head back, exposing his neck. He then pressed the cold blade of his sword on the laryngeal prominence and pulled back swiftly along the blade’s length. A crimson spray emitted almost immediately much to Belegorn’s satisfaction.

All around him other soldiers were also in the midst of mortal combat. Archers delivered their steel tipped arrows in volleys with deadly accuracy while halberdiers and pikemen charged shoulder to shoulder and literally overran anything in their way. Tough man-at-arms of the line and skillful skirmishers finished off any enemy that escaped the said unstoppable human fence, just as what Belegorn was doing. The impetus of the sortie had thrown the enemy off balance and Belegorn was eager to exploit the opening created.

He lifted the horn of a mountain onyx and blew with his might so that all around him could hear,

“ONWARDS CHILDREN! PUSH ON! PUSH ON!”

Belegorn saw his regimental flag bearer huddled to the rear and called to him in his mighty voice,

“TO ME! AVANT BANNER!”

Belegorn and the flag bearer carrying his fluttering green pennon dashed towards the frontlines. Those who saw the advance of the banner let out a cry of triumph and followed suite. The sortie led by the rearguard continued to surge forwards irresistibly overwhelming everything in its path.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Hearing no reply, Faerim swore under his breath and leapt towards the stairs, taking them three at a time. Why was Brander not replying? And where was his mother? The orcs had not yet reached their level, but... hearing footsteps, the youth spun around, his sword out and pointing in the direction of the noise as he paused mid-step.

"Son! Faerim! What is it?" Lissi's anxious face looked up at him from beneath him. Faerim sagged visibly with relief, grinning widely at his mother. "Mother...Brander, where is he?"

"I'm here." Brander's soft, reassuring voice came from the top of the stairs as the blind boy walked down them assuredly, but with his hand gripping the banister carefully. "You aren't hurt, Faerim?"

Faerim grinned, laughing breathlessly as he took his brother's hand to stop him, and clasping it in his own. "Me, brother? The orcs were running scared away from me!"


Brander smiled, his hand coming up to Faerim's face as if he was checking him over. But there wasn't a second to spare. "Your father, Faerim - did you see him?" Lissi sounded anxious, coming to the bottom of the stairs. Her eldest son turned to face her, coming down the stairs quickly as he shook his head, pushing his long, fine blonde hair out of his face as he did so, his expression impassive, still breathless. "He was on the ground level, mother; I was above, with the archers. I...I did not see Carthor when the orcs took the ground level."

Lissi's eyes opened wide and she raised a hand to her mouth. "They have already taken over the ground level."

Faerim clenched his jaw tightly as he nodded. He was about to speak when he heard a scream, very suddenly, from far closer than he would have expected, and his head snapped to the side, his fist clenching over the sword that he still held. Vaulting the banister, the youth landed hard on the wooden floor but took no notice of the jarring in his ankles as he ran to the window and looked through the slit between the shutters down the street. There, coming down the street, were at least half a dozen of the vile orcs: he could see them so closely, barely twenty feet away, their foul laughter echoing down the street as they battered their way into the houses. The screams of women came from the houses all around, the men being away fighting, and the orcs simply raised their heads and laughed. Faerim felt sick. How had they managed to get to this level? And the orcs were like a breaking dam: where there was a trickle, there would soon be a crushing torrent.

He couldn't help gasping quietly in horror, and his mother picked up on it, coming to his side. "What? What is the matter, Faerim?"

Faerim pushed his mother gently back, trying to keep her away so that she wouldn't see the vile creatures, shaking his head silently, but Lissi pushed past him, looking through the slit. As soon as she saw the orcs, she opened her mouth, making to speak, but Faerim put his finger to her lips, shaking his head urgently. "We need to get out as quietly as possible, mother - they cannot know we are here," he murmured softly. Lissi, her eyes wide and bright, nodded mutely. "Go, please, get a cloak for yourself and Brander - I will get the horses ready." With that, he was gone, sprinting out of the door quickly as Lissi, pausing only for a second, flew up the stairs in a whirlwind of skirts to prepare herself and Brander. Faerim was glad for his mother's sensibility: he needed it now, when he was required, for once in his life, to be responsible. It was something he had otherwise managed to pretty well avoid...

The family, unlike most, had their own stables in use, at the side of the house, joining through the cellar: you went down the stairs to the cellar and up those which led to the servant's quarters, almost seperate from the main house: by going up these steps, you entered the side of the stables. Not, of course, that they were particularly vibrant: there was space for a dozen horses in the high ceilinged, spacious stalls, but what use had they for a dozen horses? There was only an old widow next door with no interest in equine activities of any sort, and Carthor had gambled away much of the family's money - they had no excess for more than was needed. But despite their slowly dwindling fortune, Carthor had always held firm to one principle: that his horse was never to be sold, and that his sons were always going to be able to hold their heads high and ride their own horses. It was an ironic twist, then, when Carthor discovered that one of his sons would never be able to ride independantly, but his wife had persuaded him to keep the horse, being herself a keen horseman. Grudgingly, Carthor had agreed, doing simply what would please his delicate young wife and avoid hassle for himself. Faerim found himself especially thankful for this as he ascended the few steps quickly and tried to push open the door. It wouldn't move: locked, and the key probably knocked out by the thuds that shook the city and the houses. Rather than wasting time on looking in the dingy, unlit room, Faerim simply took a step backwards and kicked the door open with all his might. It splintered loudly and he winced at the noise, then entered the stables and quickly ran down to where the horses were kept.

Faerim's own horse, simply named North, had been a gift out of practicality when the boy was thirteen and had outgrown the docile, delicate steed that he had learnt to ride on as a boy. Both father and son had been determined that Faerim would join the military and so, as a sort of coming of age gift, the newly broken in, powerful black stallion had been given to him: and since then, with Faerim now seventeen and North the same, both steed and master had fleshed out nicely, the latter growing into the war horse that he had always been intended to be. North whinnied quietly as his master approached and stamped uneasily hay-strewn floor, tossing his great black head, nervous of the thumps and sudden flashes that could be seen dully through the dirty, high windows of the stables. Faerim laid a hand gently on his horse's muzzle, stroking his fingers down the long white stripe that ran down the horse's nose, making a soft, soothing 'shushing sound as he unbolted the stall door, and saddled and bridled North deftly. Coming out again, the boy now faced a hard decision.

His mother's wish to keep a horse of her own would serve them well now. The creature was a delicate looking mare, tailored to fit a growing boy and to teach him to ride well on a challenging steed. Brander had never used the horse independantly though, but the mare was perfect for Lissi: dappled grey, it's intelligent eyes dark and quiet, a good natured beast. But those eyes were now wide, the whites showing brightly as the horse neighed, terrified of the noises outside. In the stall beside this was another horse: Carthor's. To look at this horse, one could never be in doubt of it's purpose as a war-horse: as scarred and ancient as it's owner, the creature was as powerful a beast as ever walked Middle Earth, it's broad shoulders and wide, muscled girth having seen Carthor through very many long winters and expeditions. The horse barely fidgeted in it's stall, instead looking at Faerim with a deep, trusting understanding of the noises outside, quiet and calm.

The Dunedain youth hesitated, looking from his mother's mare to his father's war-horse. The latter would be more practical - a war horse would be more enduring, and there was less chance of it frighting as they rode through the streets. And what if Carthor returned? He would need his horse. But to ask Lissi to leave behind her mare... Faerim shook his head and unbolted the mare's door, taking only as brief a second as was possible to try to calm the horse before he began to saddle her up. He would have to take all three.

Having saddled up and bridled all three horses, Faerim tied together the bridles of North and Carthor's horse with a long piece of twine rope: long enough and strong so they would be able to ride together, but not so strong that one horse would not be able to break free of the other if one was injured or killed. Angry at the time he had wasted in deliberating which horse to choose, Faerim moved quickly, quickly packing up some horsefeed and lashing it to North's saddle. Then he stopped once more, as he reached the door, catching sight of what sat beside it...

"Mother, Brander!" Faerim immediately regretted shouting and clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms as he looked around alertly at the street at the back of the house. No sign of any orcs yet...

The door swung open and Lissiel and Brander ran out, Lissi guiding her son with a light hand. She held in her hand a sack, which looked alarmingly heavy and unwieldy to Faerim. "Mother, we can't take-"

Lissi shushed Faerim with a wave of her hand. "We'll take these, Faerim, it isn't much. Here-" She slipped a very full quiver of arrows of her back and handed it to her son. "I thought you might need these - you haven't any left there."

Faerim blushed at his foolishly, the red vivid against his pale skin, and counted his blessings for his mother's observant and practical nature, whilst simultaneously feeling ridiculous for not organising himself. His mother had also equipped herself with one of his father's weapons: a bladed staff. But Faerim nonetheless felt it his duty to give her what he had brought as well. He took a sheathed short sword from where he had hung it on North's saddle, and handed it to her. "Here: this would be more useful when riding. What on earth have you got in that sack? And can you use that staff well?" he added, eyeing the other weapon. Lissi simply smiled knowingly and raised her eyebrows before she turned to the grey mare and mounted smoothly. Faerim raised one of his own and grinned at her, despite their desperate situation, then turned to Brander, taking the other item he had picked up from the stables. "Brander - something for you to defend yourself..."

The younger boy took the weapon, his expression confused: they both knew that a blade would hardly help him in a desperate situation. But as he felt over the object, his face brightened in understanding, and Brander smiled at Faerim hesitantly. "A staff..."

"More like a club really: it can't hurt you but you're strong enough to fairly do some damage with it." Although Brander couldn't see it, Faerim's smile was audible in his voice, and Faerim saw his brother almost glowing with pride at the responsibility. Nodding, satisfied that they were ready and without a second to lose, Faerim helped his brother up into the saddle then mounted quickly in front of him. Settling them both, Brander's hands around his waist lightly, the quiver of arrows slung awkardly across his back with the bow, and his sword in the saddle-sheath, Faerim took a deep breath. He had been working on auto-mode so far: he was just waiting to fall apart. Looking across at his mother, Faerim noted the bright grey light that seemed to shine out of her eyes, making them almost otherworldly. Seeing him looking, Lissi turned to her son and smiled nervously, her calm nature reassuring without saying a word. Faerim took another deep breath, squeezed his brother's hand lightly, and, with that, the family began their exodus, making their way along the street from which they would head to the Inner Sanctum. Surely the orcs couldn't get there as well...

[CaptainofDespair]

Hot, and acrid air swirled about the doomed city, a mixture of the fires consuming unnumbered corpses, the reek of the recently slain, and the sweat and tears of the populace. The ghastly smell was only matched by the equally sickening screams and howls of those who were left to the menace of the orcs. The sounds were distant, but for the young Mitharan, they were all too near and dear. Standing at the gateway of the final tier of the city’s defenses, he watched in horror, unable to save those who were now marked by death.

Turning to one of his guardsmen, who muttered a few choice words. “It is for the better, that they die now. At least they will not live to see the next dawn...” He struggled to force out the last words. “...which shall usher in the fall of our once mighty people.” A minute tear formed in the corner of his eye, but he brushed it away as quickly as it had formed. His guardsmen stared forward, unmoving and seemingly unfeeling, bearing countenances similar to that of statues.

Suddenly, another projectile came hurtling towards their position, but it was stopped by the sanctum’s walls, which shuddered under the shock of the hit. A few archers from the regular army had remained behind on the wall, rather than to push out to halt the progress of the orcs, with their comrades. They had been where the projectile had smashed into the ramparts, but they stood there no longer. Muffled screams had been heard, but they were soon pushed out of memory, to prepare for the new array of senses which bombarded all of those who were still alive.

With cloaks fluttering in the rancid breeze, Mitharan and his entourage strode out into the war-torn, and ruined tier which lay before them. As they went forth, the counselor offered a few bits of encouragement to his personal guard. “Prepare your hearts and minds, my brave allies. We go forth, to meet horrors unknown. But take heart, for there are many enemies to slay before we are to be stricken down, or recalled to evacuate.” His men gave a “Hurrah!”, and hardened their hearts for battle.

They quickly passed the rearguard stationed at the gateway of the inner sanctum. Giving a nod to the posted soldiers, the small party issued forth, entering the lower parts of the city, on the wings of caution. The dead were strewn everywhere, slumped against crates and buildings, and scattered throughout the streets. The smell as almost enough to unnerve the group, and drive them back into the sanctum. But, they carried on, wandering through the emptiness that had engulfed the alleys and side passageways. Soldier, orc, and civilian were all at the mercy of death, left to fend for themselves in the chaos of war. While they wandered, a muffled screaming could be heard emanating from a small home. Inside, orcs searched, and pursued the occupants, who had hoped to hide from the disfigured, hideous orcs. Though urgency dictated that he should move up to help those fighters on the main battle line, morality urged him to enter the home, and execute the orcs for their crimes.

Mitharan, flanked by his guard, burst in through the door, to find an orc holding a whimpering young girl by the hair, preparing to slit her throat. But, with innate agility, the counselor beat out the orc, hurling a small knife into its own throat, leaving it gasping for breath, as it fell to the floor in a pool of its own black blood. Mitharan, kneeling, spoke to the girl, in a whisper, after scanning her over for any pressing wounds. “Where is your mother, child?” The girl, still in shock, pointed to the back of the house. “Good girl...Now wait here with these men, while I go get your mother.” Cautiously, the young statesmen moved to the rear of the house, listening for any sounds, while two of his guards brought up the rear. Sweeping quickly into the next room, the two guards fanned out, slaying two orcs who were caught in the midst of their vicious reveling. Mitharan himself jumped a piece of broken furniture, thrusting his sword into the gut of a third orc, ending its life with a slash delivered to the frontal section of its vile skull, spilling brain matter onto the floor, as the creature’s body crashed through a rectangular table. The girl’s mother was quickly found, huddled underneath another miscellaneous piece of furniture. She had a few wounds, each oozing fresh blood, but none were life threatening, for the moment. Now, an escape was needed. He quickly gave an order to a few of his guardsmen. “Take these two back to the sanctum. Rejoin us when you have done this.” They nodded, in acknowledgment, and quickly gathered the girl and her mother, and whisked them out into the streets, back towards the only remaining safe ground in the city.

Mitharan, and his remaining handful of guards, were equally as quick in getting back out into the street. They went in great haste, for dire circumstance would befall them if they did not locate the main body of the remaining defenders within the tier. Rushing through the stricken city, they forced their way past collapsed buildings, overturned carts, and the countless bodies of the dead. At last, after following the sounds of battle, they burst out from an alley, into an empty street. “There’s no one here, milord,” muttered one the soldiers. “I can see that. I was sure they were here. From the walls I saw this spot, and I saw the carnage of battle...” The counselor sulked, demoralized. Then, the earth shuddered, and began to quake. The sounds of feet, ironshod feet, those of orcs, came rumbling forth, and encircled them. “We’re trapped, milord.” The soldier caught the glare of his lord. “Yes, I can see that quite well.”

Grunting and hissing, the orcs issued forth from the shadows, as if they were a great, impenetrable wall, one which no man could enter. The ravenous lust for battle, bloodshed, and death, drove these orcs to the point where any number of foes, no matter how small, would be hunted down and massacred, without quarter. Ever so slowly, they pressed in, forming a wall of bodies that could only be broken by strength of arms. There were not many, but it was more than enough to outnumber Mitharan and his guard. Then, they came. In small groups they rushed out from their line, to give an attempt at slaying their foes. They were all quickly dispatched, with helms splintered, innards disemboweled, and heads cleaved clean off. The soldiers fought valiantly alongside their lord, but it was not enough. The orcs now attacked en masse, and a free for all melee ensued, tossing organization to the wind. But slowly, each man was hemmed in, cut off from his brothers, and left to fend for himself. But, without warning, a horn blew from the street leading back to the sanctum.

The few guardsmen that had been sent off to escort the woman and child, had returned, with aid. Mitharan’s father, learning of his son’s mind, gathered his own loyal guards, and went out to bring him back. This twist of events emboldened Mitharan and his entrapped guard. They now fought harder, and with allies pressing in from the outside, the orcs were in dire straits. And then, the orcs broke rank, and fled back from whence they came. But the young counselor would not let them escape so easily. He hunted down the few stragglers, and brought swift death to them, hacking off their heads, which spewed charred blood into the streets. His father however, bearing a sounder mind, grabbed his son by the shoulder, and attempted to instill some form of reason into his mind. “My son, you cannot save the city. However valiant you may be, you cannot prevail with such small numbers. Please, gather your senses, and return back to the sanctum. We are to begin preparing for evacuation.” Mitharan, seeing the reason his father preached, sighed, and turned to flee back to the well protected sanctum. Then, he pointed to a few guards. “Take the bodies of our fallen comrades. We shall not leave them to the orcs, for they derive strength from feasting on the corpses.”

[Arry]

Rôsgollo

Rôsgollo’s search for Lord Ereglin bore no fruit, save for increasing understanding that he must get to the top level if her were to survive to see his Lord and brother to safety. Gaeredhel, where are you? he called as he ran. But heat from the fires spreading from the parapet and the swell of battle as the Orcs breached the gates pressed in upon him and he could spare no time to look for an answering call. He retreated in haste to the western passageway slipping in just as the gates were closed and barred against the enemy. Breathing hard, he stood for a moment with his back against the stonework.

My brother, I am here with Lord Ereglin. He is safe. Come! Gaeredhel’s urgent call lifted a corner of the pervading shadow that cast a pall over sight and senses.

The enemy was already bearing down on the entryway to the third level as Rôsgollo climbed the steps up from the now closed gates. He paused at the top, making way as reinforcements of the city’s forces hurried to fortify their positions. Before heading to where his brother and Lord Ereglin were, Rôsgollo made his way up to the parapet that looked down on the second level. A dark river swelled into the streets below, leaving eddies of red and the sounds of screams and cut off cries as it surged against any who stood in its way. In some small places, there were brighter swords raised and the singing of arrows as they rushed in vain hope toward their targets. But the small points of light were borne under by the unrelenting current of the dark river. In vain, he looked for the Periannath, but could not find them below, nor did he see them along the parapet on this tier. With a grim face, he headed toward the hall where Lord Ereglin had been housed. From there he would make for the North Gate, intending to find his brother as he escorted Lord Ereglin to the escape way.

He paused to ask a question of one of the King’s men set as guard at the quarters where the Elves were staying. The man was just preparing to leave to join the other troops when Rôsgollo ran up. ‘They’ve all gone, the Elves have,’ the man told him. ‘They’ll be gathering in the King’s Hall with Minister Mellonar before they head to the North Gate.’ Rôsgollo thanked the man and ran on toward the Hall. An image and a thought niggled at the back of his mind as he sped on.

A thin, pale man, hunched beneath his robes . . . a vulture, waiting to feed on the dead . . . Rôsgollo narrowed his eyes at the image. . . . Any dead . . . Vultures are not picky when it comes to feeding, he thought. He must warn his brother . . . the man may bear watching . . .

[Kransha]

Hírvegil’s troops diffused through the city as ripples in water, spreading into the alleys and side-streets of lower Fornost. Trying to exterminate the scattered orcs who had broken through into the city, the Rearguard managed to overwhelm most of the second level, since few orcs had gotten near enough to the third wall to be able to stand a chance against the full Rearguard. The Angmar-hordes, however, had by now fully broken through, and were surging into the districts, setting fire to all they saw, tearing walls, rending roofs, and befouling the once-great city with their stink and blood.

Hirvegil himself stayed near the front of one of the groups spearheading forward towards the gate, down the broad central road that led from one gate to the next. Passing ruined fountains with derelict, crumbled architecture, the company cut down the few disorganized bands of goblins that stood before them as the visage of the splintered second wall grew before them. As they bounded towards it, they saw the orc-host growing with the sight of smoke and death, which rose like a massive storm cloud overhead and a surge of ash and geysers of smog from below. The orcs were clashing with the very skewed remnants of the Vanguard, and some divisions of the Midguard which had been stationed in the city. Both were decimated, and their ranks failing as the orcs pushed forward. The rearguard did the same, driving towards the fallen gates and walls as companies branched out into the city. Guards had been dispatched to fetch the Elves some time ago, and it would not be long before all of the Elven diplomats were accounted for, and the citizens of Fornost were grouped in the inner sanctum for evacuation. All was going well, even if the city was falling.

Then, a greater shadow then ever before fell upon the city and a new and terrifying sound replaced all others.

That terrible sound would haunt Hírvegil until his days’ end. It was no shriek, nor scream, nor cry, nor any sound belonging to man, but a ghastly noise that wrenched him from the world and ripped sharply and deeply into him. He felt blackness and shadow, flowing through him as if it had overwhelmed the blood in his veins and stopped up his heart. With a groan of pain and anguish, he reeled. He looked about him, and saw that his troops were likewise wrenched from themselves for a moment, and many teetered clumsily upon their legs. But, as the soldiers of Fornost quailed, those of Angmar swelled and hooted. A great shadow had passed into the city and a cloud as dark as death had obscured whatever vague light yearned to be seen in the sky. The cries of the orcs grew louder and grimmer, becoming hoots of mad victory. They knew, as Hírvegil knew, that their moment of victory had come at last. The battle for Fornost was about to end.

Then, all of a sudden, silence fell, and the orcs slid back into their respective orifices, as if they had been sucked back, berated by the forces of Fornost. The sky was not bright, but its stormy aspect was also removed by chance, and the terrible screams of the wounded ceased instantly. It seemed, but for a moment, that the road was clear. Silence fell too suddenly to replace the din.

And then the shadow fell again.

Hírvegil saw it with his own eyes, and nearly turned away, clapping his hand to his armor as his heart beat with the great speed of the winds themselves. The broad, stone-cobbled road that led from the main gate of the second wall to the inner sanctum now bore a misty fog which surged forward like a wave, a terrific wave that wiped over the streets and flowed through windows, doors, over turrets and bulwarks, and into mortal souls. Orcs streamed forth, bearing tooth, claw, and jagged weapon at the Rearguard, which could not help but pull away as the herald of darkness and his host fell upon them.

The Captain of Despair himself had arrived; the Witch-King of Angmar.

Borne on a pale-black steed, deathly and ghastly in gait, was a black-robed figure with a great, icy sliver of a sword raised up in his hand. As the Wraith’s steed bore him onward, his tattered mantle fluttered behind like terrible wings and the void enveloped in his ominous hood spouted terrible sounds, the cries of men in anguish. The Chieftain of the Nazgûl galloped behind a line of orcs, and then behind a second, and the orcs soon overtook him and overwhelmed the battlefield, but the Witch-King did not fall into the background. His shadowy visage held a terrible grimness that was imprinted in every mind, and the morale of Arnor was broken. Anarchy had come, and route was not far behind. Above and around the figure, the visage of shrouds and moving shades darted, rocketing themselves through the air and howling. Hirvegil could not determine identity of these things that carried a shroud over the field, though, in his state of fear, he could only guess that they were spirits of some sort; the entourage of the Witch-King. His mad mind conjured the thought of more wraiths and wights come to consume him, but his logical half reduced them to illusions, and he hardened his heart against them – His men, though, were not. Within seconds, morale deteriorated to the breaking point and shattered.

“The Captain of Despair is upon us!” voiced a lieutenant of the rearguard, speaking a name for the Witch-King used in Gondor and Arnor. That officer turned on his metal-clad heel and fled through the ranks of his troops. They turned, horror blazoned on their faces, and scattered away from the orcs. Other units broke and fled, routing like so many frightened birds sprinting in whatever direction seemed appropriate.

The rearguard crashed into the ranks of orcs and overflowed on both sides. Hírvegil saw orcs leaping above him and men being thrown about. Two soldiers were crushed into the earthen street beside him, and the heavily but crudely armored uruk footmen crowded around, brandishing an assortment of blades staves, clubs, maces, swords, knives, and axes. Hírvegil, setting his petty fears aside as best as he could, held his ground. Hammering his ironclad feet into the ground, the Captain began to flail his sword swiftly, hefting his shield to the back so it would not hamper his movement. He risked a direct hit, but knew he could fend off the anarchic mass of weaponry coming at him with ease, as long as his strength did not give out. A broad horizontal slash sliced the head from one orc and the heart from another. He spun, but kept his head inclined, staring, eyes affixed on the same path of murderous uruks surging on every side. He saw blades piercing the air and, barely able to keep from panicking, swung his sword in a parrying arc and pulled his shield to the front. As the light of the jagged weapons, reflected by their dark sheen, blinded Hírvegil, he heard a clang and a thud, and his eyes reopened despite the pain in them.

One orcish scimitar lay on the ground and an ax lay imbedded in the wood of his shield. Hírvegil pushed forward, lashing out with his shield and pushing orcs to the ground before he speared them where they lay dazed. He saw blade points peek through his shield, filling up on the other side, until the defensive device was nearly torn to ribbons. Bashing and clubbing with the remains, Hírvegil leapt back as it was cloven for the last time, and hurled the wooden bulk forward, watching with grim satisfaction as its weight struck down and orc coming forward at another man. Gritting his teeth and sucking in breath, Hírvegil wrapped both hands around his sword in tight fists and drove the sword forward at the masses, listening as he slashed and stabbed for the sickening crunch that meant he had hit a target. At last, he felt the sting of weariness, and the many minor wounds he’d received took hold. He could feel blood dripping from the plates of armor on his arms and chest, but did not feel the wounds; his whole body was numb and any part of him that felt was burning like fire. His legs barely able to hold him, he retreated into the ranks of his men, letting his sword fall and drag along the ground. Eventually, the Captain struggled past the fray and into an area of less severe concentration and combat.

In the distance, surrounded by more men, Hírvegil saw that Belegorn had been pulled aside by one of the Captains. He managed to get nearer to Belegorn, but near enough, and was forced to yell to attract his attention and compensate for the cacophony. “Belegorn,” he cried, magnifying his voice until it was pained so that he could overcome the din, “are all the Elves accounted for?” Belegorn could barely manage to cry back, but he was able to say, audibly, “Yes, sir.” Hirvegil did not bother to sigh with relief, too busy slashing the arm off an attacker, and began to back away from the thick of the fray. “Keep fighting,” he yelled to Belegorn as he began to tear his way backward through the rearguard to get to open space, “but be prepared for retreat. We must outlast the hordes if we are to successfully evacuate the city.”

Belegorn shot a last cry to him as he left the chaos. “The Vanguard has been annihilated, Captain;” his stern voice wrung in Hírvegil’s ears, “we are the last force in combat.” This was something Hírvegil had guessed, but the knowledge presented so bluntly and truthfully was painful indeed, and he lurched as he strode back. This was the second time this day he’d been taken aback by an obvious statement. He could think of no morale-boosting words to shoot back to his lieutenant across the field, and, with a haphazard shake of his head, gave his final order for the moment. “Extract the remainder of the rearguard from the orcish ranks and get the wounded to the rear. May the winds of Manwë give you speed, and the might of Tulkas give you strength.”

His lieutenant nodded curtly, and turned, disappearing into the smoke and dust. Confused and filled with dread, Hírvegil sprinted towards the stairs to the highest level, looking up. As he did, his eyes widened in deep anguish as a single dark shadow crossed over him and above, past the walls looming above. A great projectile, like a comet, ablaze with fire, soared majestically overhead and crashed down into the last of the silver pinnacles of the Kings’ Hall.

The last tower of Fornost, before Hírvegil’s eyes, shattered and crumbled with a terrible crash. His soul retching inside him, Hírvegil forced himself to run up the stairs and onto the parapet of the inner sanctum.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Bethiril followed the Dúnedain guard to the king’s court.

The main thoroughfare to the court was choked with people trying to flee the nearly fallen city. She looked at the refugees. Some would not be parted with their riches, carrying heavily laden carts that they dragged while negotiating the crowded avenue. Others, wiser and more foresighted perhaps, carried nothing more than what would fit in a pack they could easily carry in their backs. Still, she thought, even these wise ones would not be able to outrun the black tide once it gains mastery. And even if they could flee from its reach—when first she came to the city, a layer of snow newly fallen covered it. For the next days the blizzard waxed in might, as if in league with the Orc host. Winter would take those who did not fall to the bitter steel of the Orcs. It was sad to ponder. In her youth she cherished the gloom of Winter.

The dark clouds run swift, and hide Menel’s light.
And Manwë covers all with a blanket of white.

Her guard/guide forced her back to the present situation. He said that time was of the essence, and they would now take circuitous passages to avoid the crowds. And so they walked, and she knew she would never see most of those Men again. Perhaps if she had come earlier . . .

A high-pitched cry shattered the last remnants of tranquillity in the city. All stopped in their tracks, and turned to the direction of the sound. Some fell to their knees and covered their ears, as if such an act could shield them.

She had not heard such a cry of despair and blackness since the winged Dragons first troubled Middle-earth, when last the sons of Valinor went to battle against the hosts of Morgoth in the Plains of Gasping Dust. But such potency of malice in one fell voice—if ever evil were to be music, this would be its chord of victory. Her mien remained impassive, yet in her heart fear spoke ever loud: Even were all the hosts of the Elven realms sent to the aid of Arnor, none would withstand the waxing might of this Master of the Shadow of Fear.

Nay, Bethiril gainsaid the voice. Fear ever seeks to weaken the resolve of all who lend ear to it. Her lord Elrond still puts trust in the swords of Elves and Men united, essaying to root out where the seeds of Morgoth sprouted. This seedling, however strong and deep its roots were, would fall to the same doom.

Still, as they neared the king's court, a silent tune from the past played within her . . .

Chill music that a herald piper plays
Foreseeing winter and the leafless days.
The late flowers trembling on the ruined walls
Already stoop to hear that chilling tune.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn

The huge leather clad uruk crashed heavily onto its knees and a soft wet gurgling sound emitted from its throat. With a yell, Belegorn drove his sword swiftly through its broad back, penetrated the flimsy armor and did not stop until he felt the distinctive crack of a shattered vertebrate giving way. The acting commander of the rearguard then drew his blade back up and kicked the hulking carcass of his fallen foe aside. Wiping the stinging hot sweat from around his eyes with the back of his hand, Belegorn looked around and cursed.

In the excitement of the charge, the first line of the rearguard – the newest and most inexperienced men of the regiment was doomed. Led by an enthusiastic lieutenant of old aristocracy but modest ability, the line overextended and gaps formed between bands of fighting men. The enterprising uruks exploited the points of weakness by spearheading through the widening gaps in hefty numbers, encircling the men of the first line and crashing heavily into the second line – the tougher third year veterans. The young soldiers of the first line fought desperately like lions, but with their cohesion broken, most senior sergeants and the line lieutenant killed, they panicked and dissolved into a rout.

The men of the second line were equally ill prepared for the ferocity of the huge orcs and confusion then became chaotic and was further augmented by the arrival of the remnants of the first line, who rush terror-stricken in all directions to escape. It was almost too much for the men of the second line to take and they started giving way…

Belegorn turned towards the regimental archers at the rear and barked a curt set of orders. Fearing that the second line was about to follow suite first and rout, he and the flag bearer darted towards it and found that a crisis was in the making, for the men of the second line were so closely huddled together that their shields overlapped and each man was unable even to unsheathe his sword to fight. Individuals in the rear were already slinking away while many of the senior sergeants were also incapacitated. The uruks were decimating the men in the front – easily overpowering the defenseless men with their great strength.

Swearing vehemently, Belegorn grabbed the shield of one of the guardsmen in the rear and shoved his way to the front, urging the men to spread out and give themselves room to fight. He bellowed out the names the sergeants of the line and of the men he recognized to advance and reform the line.

“Nicanor! Iarminuial! Esgalelin! Reform the line! Attack!”

As Belegorn reached the front, an uruk attempted to smite him with his black blood-dripping scimitar. Belegorn raised his shield and absorbed the blow before thrusting his own blade into the groin of the enemy. He stole a quick glance to his rear and saw that the flag bearer was still with him and sigh a relief.

It was up to the archers now, and they did not fail him.

A skillfully discharged volley of arrows arced across the second line and as ordered by Belegorn, the archers let them down amidst the mass of uruks. With their second echelon cut down by the merciless missiles, the uruks at the front lost their momentum and stopped. Belegorn dashed towards the closest uruk and let his trusty blade find the orc’s head with a loud roar. The sharp Dúnedain sword met its mark and cleaved the uruk’s head in half.

Turning towards the men to his rear, Belegorn harangued them, nodding towards the stunned host of orcs,

“You miserable wretches! Aren’t you ashamed to let your lieutenant be beaten by mere animals?”

An emboldened orc charged towards Belegorn and attempted to kill him with a thrust of his scimitar. Belegorn skillfully parried the blow and delivered a lateral backhand swipe with his sword arm and took of the miserable creature’s head. Black steaming ichor gushed forth from the severed neck.

“While? What are you waiting for?”

Several of the senior sergeants had responded to Belegorn and came up to him. Belegorn then turned towards the orcs and charged, yelling with all his breath. The movement forward was a catalyst for the necessary courage and momentum of the rearguard. With a roar the men of the second line swept past Belegorn and the flag bearer and charged towards the enemy. With concentrated local superiority, the rearguard slaughtered the uruks.

Belegorn waited for the second line to scatter the uruks before signaling to the flag bearer to wave the pennon and the trumpeters to sound the halt and withdraw – he had no intention to lead the regiment into mass suicide. The first lieutenant then turned towards the third line – the supreme elite of the regiment, and signaled to them to part ranks and allow the second line to withdraw unmolested. It was his intent to withdraw the entire regiment by this leap-frog maneuver.

For now, the reputation of the rearguard as the best of Arthedain was safe. But just barely.

[alaklondewen]

The fruit of the enemy had taken Fornost. The streets lay in ruin, and the stench of the death and despair that surrounded the Counselor and his guard sought to overwhelm and overcome them. Ereglin covered his mouth and nose with his left hand and tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword with the other as they passed yet another scene where a small battle had occurred. Three young Dunedain lay where they fell, crumpled on the street. The Elf noticed the absence of their swords and wondered at the irony of others being slain by their comrades weapons.

“We must be careful, sir.” Gaeredhel called over a crash coming from their right. “The enemy holds no order.” His words were short and clipped by the steps he took. “They seem to be charged by the chaos that surrounds them.”

Ereglin nodded gravely just as shadow covered the city. The terrifying screech that followed cut into the Elf’s heart with a blade of darkness, and Ereglin stumbled momentarily...the Witch King had arrived. Darkness covered his eyes like a thick tapestry. Frantically, the Elf grabbed at his face and wiped his eyes, but he still could not see. A growing pressure gnawed on the edge of his mind, and he called out with as much force as he could muster, “A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!” Immediately, the darkness fell away from his mind like shards of glass, and Ereglin breathed deeply as though he had held his breath for several minutes.

“Lord Ereglin!” The guard’s voice broke brought him back into the dire scene. “We must move with all haste, sir...we are nearly to the Inner Sanctum!”

“Yes, with haste!” Ereglin followed Gaeredhel as they began to race toward the gates of the third level.

A crowd bustled around the entrance trying to file through. Many of the women were crying, as were their children, but as the Elf looked over their faces as they approached, he noticed one woman with a face as cold as stone. She carried with her a babe, hugged closely to her side, and Ereglin wondered how this woman, who’s sapphire eyes blazed, would fare. The Men parted enough to allow the Elves through, and they hastened to the King’s Hall.

One of the King’s guards met them at the base of the structure. “Lord Ereglin.” The guard quickly bowed and nodded to Gaeredhel. “Minister Mellonar is awaiting your arrival. All Elves are to assemble within the Hall.”

“Thank you,” Ereglin nodded to the guard, and he and Gaeredhel ran under the eaves of the great hall. At that moment, cries rose from the people within the third level and great crash was heard above them.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The three horses galloped at full pelt through the streets of the upper level, even the two great war horses terrified by the sounds around them. North's nostrils were flared and red and his breathing harsh and shallow as he belted along the cobbled streets and up the shallow, twisting, wide twisting stairway to the Inner Sanctum, Faerim bent low over his neck, his fingers entwined desperately in both rein and mane, his brother's fingers digging deep into his sides. The boy was entirely focused on riding straight ahead, keeping an eye on his mother but otherwise taking in nothing but the paved path that lay between his family and the Inner Sanctum.

Suddenly, a terrible, fierce screeching noise came from above him, the sound of the very fabric of reality being torn apart. It was too much for North: the inexperienced black stallion whinnied and reared up suddenly in terror, snapping the twine that tied his bridle to that of Carthor's horse and nearly throwing both boys off his back. Faerim grabbed at his brother's wrists with one hand, trying to stop him from sliding off as he desperately tried to stay on the back of his horse. But then he saw the sight that made his blood run cold.

Faerim, although young, was not cowardly: he came from a line of fine Arthadain soldiers and his every cell had yearned to serve his city and his country in the army since he couldn't remember. He was brave, morally and physically; but nothing in the world could ever have prepared him for the sight of the creature that lay in front of him. He yelled in shock and horror, his eyes opening wide as North reared once more. Faerim barely tried to calm his horse: his eyes were fixed on the fearsome, inhuman figure that, as he watched, took out three soldiers with one swing of that massive icy sword. The beast didn't look at him, but it was if he could feel every moment of joy he had ever experienced being tainted and sapped away as he looked upon the one that was called the Captain of Despair.

And for once, just for once, Faerim envied his brother for his lack of sight.

A scream pierced the air, a sudden, sharp, human sound that shook Faerim from his reverie, seeming to stand out even against all the chaos around them. Startled once more, the youth's head whipped around and there, amid the rubble of destroyed houses beneath their perch on the stairs, was a woman of about the same age as his mother, clutching a young boy's hand desperately. Faerim stared at the woman: how was she still alive there, with the orcs running wild? One thing was for sure: she wasn't going to last much longer like that. Faerim wasn't sure what about this woman had called to him so particularly, amid the devastation and death of the city; but as she struggled forward, she looked up, and her fierce, bright blue eyes bore straight into his, before she fell forward, tripping and falling to her knees, a curtain of black hair falling over her pale, terrified face. That was it. Brander's arms were wrapped tightly around Faerim's slim, muscular waist in a death grip, holding grimly on, and Faerim could feel his younger brother's head digging into his back, feeling the vibration that his spine as his brother whimpered softly. North had stopped rearing but was dancing backwards fearfully, tossing his head and foaming at the mouth as he whinnied, terrified at the ghastly spectre. Faerim laid a hand reassuringly on his blind brother's hand, then turned to his mother, whose mare was reacting similarly to North, although Lissi tried to calm her, using all of her substantial skill as a horsewoman to stay seated.

"Mother!" Lissi looked up fearfully, expecting something to have happened to ehr son, and Faerim steered North over to her side, yelling over the chaos of the witchking's descent. "Mother, I must...there is a woman, and a child, they have been left there. I must...I..." he trailed off, not knowing what to say, not knowing why he felt such a strong bond of duty towards this woman. Lissi paused, then nodded. "Go, go! But Brander..." Faerim nodded. "Aye, he-" Brander spoke quietly, the vibrations of his voice being felt more than heard by Faerim. "I will go, Mother and I must get to the Inner Sanctum."

His brother's calm sensibility made Faerim feel weak with love towards him. "I love you, brother," he said softly, squeezing Brander's hand tightly for a brief instant. Brander was quickly moved over and seated behind Lissi on her mare, but Faerim couldn't immediately move. Lissi drew the blade that her son had given her and gave him a look of fierce, strong emotion that Faerim couldn't quite understand, tendrils of black hair whipping around her face, her grey eyes bright, looking like the warrior queens of legend. The youth lent over and kissed her roughly on her forehead then, with a last look, he reared once more, turned, and sped away from them as they rode up the stairs towards the Inner Sanctum, as he galloped in the direction they had come from. Looking around, his blonde hair blowing into his light eyes as he narrowed them against the wind and dust of destruction. He was surprised to find that Carthor's warhorse had stayed close, as if taking comfort from the presence of North, but he didn't immediately pay attention to the creature, focusing intently on the woman and her child. He rode towards her, crouched low over North's back as the last remaining survivors fled past his horse's sides. Stopping beside the woman, he offered her his hand.

"Lady, please!" he yelled over the tumultous noise around them. Glancing sharply up at the dark, ragged silhouette like the image of death that seemed to hover on his horse in front of the rearguard, he was once again sharply reminded of how little time they had. The orcs were so close he could almost smell them: in less than a minute, he estimated, both he and this woman would be dead meat.

The woman, unbelievably, hesitated, and Faerim took a second to realise why, then it hit him: he hadn't thought ahead - how was the woman going to fit on, with her child? It would certainly slow them down, even if it was possible. Then a revelation came to him, a revelation of hope that relied on one thing. He looked at the woman hopefully. "Can you ride?" he asked bluntly.

The woman nodded, her face brightening. Faerim grinned in relief, despite the situation and turned to Carthor's warhorse, who was still close. Dismounting, he helped the woman and her child up as fast as he could, then leapt deftly back onto North's back. Grabbing the reins of the other horse, Faerim spurred North on impatiently - as the tide of orcs broke on the rubble behind them. Faerim, his knuckles white on the reins, spurred North on as hard as possible, praying that he, as well as the woman and her child, could get to the Inner Sanctum in time...

[Nuranar]

Morn was, on ordinary occasions, the most placid mare Lissie had ever met. Unfortunately, this was no ordinary occasion. There was no need to urge her
to a gallop as they fled from the house; indeed, the frightened mare did her best to pass North. But Lissi just let Morn run herself out. She had other things to think about. Her eyes kept her sons always in view and glanced from crevice to shadow, looking for danger before it found them. Even as Morn leapt debris and rounded corners at breakneck speed, Lissi rode with superb balance, only her left hand on the reins. The hilt of Faerim's sword, tied above the sack on the right of her sidesaddle, was within hand's reach.

Despite her vigilance, Lissi knew nothing of the Witch-King's coming until his cry split the air, echoed appallingly by a horse's terrified scream. For an instant Lissi knew blind panic, as her body felt the chill of horror and the world around her darkened. Morn swerved violently and reared, and Lissi's muscles tightened instinctively. Her reason returned as she fought the plunging mare to a trembling halt. She couldn't afford to look up, but even in the midst of the struggle she was thinking. They were ahead of me, and so was He... He's closer to them... He's between us and the Sanctum!

"Mother!" Lissi's head snapped around at the urgency in Faerim's cry, but she gasped in relief as Faerim and Brander rode to her side, uninjured. "Mother, I must...there is a woman, and a child, they have been left there. I must...I..." he pleaded, eyes strangely compelling. Lissi hesitated for but a moment. If he feels it's his duty, I cannot stand in the way. She nodded quickly.

"Go, go!" Wait!... "But Brander-" Faerim started to say something, when Brander himself spoke. "I will go, Mother and I must get to the Inner Sanctum."

Good boy! Lissi thought. Quickly they shifted Brander over to sit behind her; instantly he wrapped both arms around her waist. "No, I'm not big enough to hold you on!" Lissi said urgently, guiding his right hand to a grip on the saddle. If he's only holding me and he starts to fall, he'll drag me with him. She glanced up the street. Orcs were fighting with the men of the rearguard, driving them slowly back. I'll need every bit of balance I've got as it is, if we're to get through - she shook off the thought - WHEN we get through! We'll be waiting for Faerim when he comes. Lissi drew Faerim's sword with an instinctive flourish and turned Morn's head. Faerim was still beside her, and she glowed with pride as she saw him. Abruptly he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, then turned and galloped back. Lissi's eyes filled with tears as she cried out to Morn and kicked her into a canter.

Swiftly they fled through the chaos of soldiers, fighting and fleeing. Somehow they passed the shadowy horror unharmed, although Morn tried to swerve and Lissi felt Brander trembling. One orc, hearing her approach, turned to brandish an oversized battle-ax; Lissi shouted to her horse and ran the orc down, swinging the sword at another nearby. The very desperation of her onslaught was an advantage, as some of the enemy gave way and others were outdistanced. Morn developed an unexpected ferocity, now that the Witch-King was out of sight, striking down orcs in their path.

Lissi raised her eyes for an instant and sighted the gate to the Inner Sanctum. "We're almost there!" she cried to Brander. Abruptly they burst into their own rearguard, and Lissi had to rein in her mount to let the soldiers make a path. They rode up through the gate, into the chaos of companies and officers, dead and wounded. At any other time Lissi would have been fully aware of her appearance; as the only women in sight, on horseback, a boy behind her, and a blood-spattered sword in her hand, she made quite a picture. But to all this she was oblivious. Even as Morn shoved on through the press, she was looking back. Please, Eru, let him live!

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen’s world was falling apart around her and yet the child still slept, wrapped in his blankets and strapped firmly to her chest. He was his father’s son, she thought to herself as the threat of tears began to prick her eyes once more. He was all that was left now. It was her and the child, alone, in this chaos and the heaving mass of struggling, frightened people. She clutched him even tighter as she tried to squeeze towards the gate, and struggled to keep her feet on the ground, lest she go under and be trampled.

As she turned her head about to get a breath of air she saw a garden she had once envied, and fell back from the struggle. It had been a beautiful place, shaded by drooping trees and filled with scented plants, and she had often gazed on it in silent envy. Now it was littered with tumbled masonry. The shrubs were crushed by many feet and the trees had been hacked at. A statue of a woman which once stood in the centre of the garden now lay on its side, its cold stony face gazing sadly on the equally stony face of Renedwen.

She faltered, thinking of her elderly parents not far away. Should she have gone back to them and insisted they join the escape? Or should she have joined them in their defence of their home? She could feel the warmth of her child’s gentle breath through her gown, and she looked from him to the struggling crowd at the gate. Surely the sensible thing to do would be to give him to another woman, bid her to take him to safety? It would not be so bad. After all, he had no father now, no home, and precious little hope of growing up in the luxury she had planned for him. Now she was no better than any other widow who struggled to get through the gate and to safety; all notions of wealth and status meant nothing now.

Renedwen had almost decided that the child would fare as well away from her when he stirred within his swaddle of blankets and opened his eyes for a moment. She suddenly found herself looking into the eyes of her husband and her heart seemed to turn within her. Wracked with grief and love she turned back to face the gate.

The cold screeching which issued from somewhere above filled her with a sudden need to be out of there, to take her child and get to safety and cold determination surged through her bones as she set herself amongst the crowd. Her deep blue eyes were intense as she tried to work out how best she could get through this gate as quickly as possible, and as she looked over the crowd, planning her escape, she noticed a tall elf with dark grey eyes watching her. He was a King’s Councillor, reduced to trying to escape as much as she was, and she watched him as he made his way skilfully through the crowd.

She was not watching what was coming from behind her, and no sooner than she heard the cries, the creature was upon her and she seemed to fall into a stairwell for protection. Then the walls started to come down and all she could do was cower with her arms covering the boy’s head. She did not even have time to cry out, and time seemed to halt as she stumbled forwards, only knowing that she had to move, had to get away, had to be elsewhere.

Renedwen looked into the eyes of a young soldier who was watching her, horrified, and then she fell. She did not put out her hand to stay her fall, as she could not bear to let go of her son, and winded, she lay in the rubble, shaking her head in despair. All the thoughts of who she missed, her husband and family who had suddenly been taken from her, whirled about her and she felt as though to give in was the only thing she wanted. She thought of meeting them on that green field and what bliss it would surely be. A hand touched her arm and she thought she might already be dead and that it might be the welcoming hand of her husband, but as she opened her eyes again, she saw the young soldier, somehow bright on his horse against the backdrop of smoke and dust.

She barely noticed as he urged her onto a horse with the child. She thought she must be smiling, but she was numb with the horror of realising she was alive after all. She automatically hooked her fingers through the halter and urged the horse on with a squeeze of her knees, but it did not seem as though it was herself who was doing anything. She felt that somehow she had left her real self elsewhere, that she ought to have been out on that green field, not here, urging a horse on in blind terror.

[Arry]

Rôsgollo

The Hall was in sight. What should have been an easy passage became a rat’s maze of dodges and twisting turns as he maneuvered his way at a run through an increasing mass of bodies. They were frightened . . . panicked . . . and it was this sense of chaos and despair that pulled at him. Help me! . . . the words beat against him, repeated over and over in little images he pushed away. His duty was to his Lord; the keeping of his Lord’s safety, his pledge.

Still he helped as he could. A hand here to one fallen in the melée and a spurring thought . . .Run, man! Seek safety. The King will lead you out soon. Another hand to a woman on her rearing horse, a child in a sling at her front and one several years older clinging desperately to her from behind . . . Shhh . . . shhh, brave one! he coaxed the frightened animal. Take your charges to safety. He ran on, speeding his way to his brother’s side without pause, save for one from which he could not turn aside.

A young woman had fallen, the victim of some foul Orc missile. She lay on her side, crumpled on the smooth paved way, a tangle of bloodied clothes and pale limbs. Her sightless eyes stared up at him as he passed; the horror now fled from them in the peace of death. Her long dark hair was snarled from her panicked flight, strands of it splotched here and there with her blood. Save for the color of her hair, she was nothing like his wife, lost long ago to this same foe. And yet he gasped at the sight of her, recalling the image of his wife and child dead in that battle. The fleeing hordes swirled about them as he paused to look down at her.

He wrenched his thoughts from her, shoving his fresh-turned grief down deep. A little movement beneath her cloak stopped him as he turned to go. There were soft words, in a tremulous little voice. ‘Mami! Gilly safe now?’ Rôsgollo crouched down, turning back the section of the cloak that covered the woman’s chest and hips. There, tucked into the hollow formed by her belly and hips was a little one, not more than three years old. He lay sucking his thumb, his grey eyes blinking in the sudden light, a frightened look on his pale face. She had tucked him there before she died, telling him to be keep quiet – they would be safe soon.

‘Come, little one . . . Gilly, is it?’ Rôsgollo murmured soothingly as he took off his leather gloves and tucked them in his belt. His hands reached for the child, who protested and pushed closer to his mother. ‘Mami!’ The plaintive cry tore at the Elf’s heart. ‘Gilly is safe now,’ he said in a gentle voice as he picked the child up and cradled him in his arms. A fat tear rolled down the little boy’s cheek. ‘Mami?’ Rôsgollo tucked his cloak about the child. ‘Yes, Mami is safe now, too.’ He leaned forward a little and closed the eyes of the woman. His voice kept up a soothing patter as he stood and began to hurry to the Hall once again.

You will not claim this one, foul Shadowspawn! he vowed as he entered under the eaves of the King’s Hall.

His brother and Lord Ereglin were soon found. ‘We are waiting on Lord Mellonar for his instruction,’ said Gaeredhel eyeing the child his brother held in his arms. ‘Best we do not wait long, my Lord,’ Rôsgollo said, shifting the boy in his arms. The last spire on this Hall has fallen to the enemy’s missiles; it will not be long before the Hall itself is in ruin. If Mellonar does not come soon, we need to get to the North Gate.’ Gaeredhel leaned in close to his brother’s ear. ‘And what about the little one. Should he not be with his kind?’

‘His mother is dead,’ Rôsgollo answered. ‘None stopped to see to her. For now, I am his “kind”.’ He looked down at the boy’s face then back at Gaeredhel and Lord Ereglin. ‘I will not abandon him,’ he said evenly.

There was a stir as Mellonar approached the gathered Elves. The focus shifted to the minister as he began to speak . . .

[Amanaduial the archer]

The woman didn't seem in any fit state to control the horse herself: she seemed to be in a state of shock, numb, frozen up, with just the strength to cling onto the reins of Carthor's horse - steering was out of the question. Faerim was therefore left with the non-too easy job of steering both horses, and as he didn't have a piece of rope or the time to tie the horses together, this meant holding the larger horse's reins with his free hand. If this wasn't enough, the orcs were catching up now; Faerim risked a glance over his shoulder and saw in horror that they were but a few seconds behind, despite the speed with which he was travelling. If either horse slowed down, they would be on them in a trice.

Swearing repeatedly under his breath, Faerim turned around again and realised a decision was going to have to be made. Shaking the woman on the shoulder, rough in his desperation, he called to her. "Hey...hey!" he called, and she turned her head to look at him, fear showing in her bright, tear-stained eyes. Faerim didn't have time for compassion though, not at the minute. He flapped the reins at the woman. "Reins - take them!" he snapped, curt from tension, still riding at full pelt, only watching the woman with one eye. By the expertise with which she had mounted, Faerim guessed this woman could ride: he hoped so, certainly, for both their sakes. Thankfully, she took the reins and took control numbly. Faerim flashed her a grateful grin and nodded upwards to the top of the stairway where he had previously come from. "Take your child up there, as fast as you can - go, go!" There was barely any point in speaking in full sentences: she probably only heard a few of the words as the wind gained confidence and blew his words away over the ruined city.

Talking of gaining confidence... Faerim glanced back at the half a dozen orcs as the woman sped past him on his father's horse. They were keeping pace worryingly well, seemingly tireless, howling and whooping as they followed the boy, like a monstrous fox hunt. Faerim swallowed his fear down hard, knowing what he had to do: it was the hardest thing he had learned when training for the army, a skill that would be invaluable in battle but which, unfortunately, he wasn't sure he had really 'perfected' yet. Shooting from a horse whilst riding. And that would mean letting go of North's reins...

Doing so in an instance, Faerim tightened his grip on North's sides with his knees, taking a precious second to balance himself, his arms out at his sides to improve it, but only for an instant. Still gripping tightly, Faerim slid the bow off his back and whipped out three arrows from the quiver at the side of the saddle where he had fixed it. Fixing the first deftly in the bow, Faerim performed the trickiest part of the manoevure: checking the way was clear ahead of him and that North was headed straight, he turned, sighted briefly, and let rip with the three arrows in quick sucession, aiming for the nearest orcs in a volley, meaning he would hit at least one of them with the three arrows. But his impeccable aim didn't fail him: he took out two of the orcs, and a third fell behind, an arrow embedded in his knee. Not that Faerim had taken any notice: he had turned to face the horse's head as soon as the third arrow was loosed, grabbing hold of the front of the saddle, gulping deep breaths of acrid air. But there were still several behind him. Dreading performing the risky manoevure once again, Faerim took another three arrows, let go of North's saddle, and fired again: once, twice, three times the arrows found their marks in the orcs, Faerim's silhouette like some legendary centaur as he fought back. Most of the small pack had fallen now, and the remaining pair were falling behind him. Relieved, the youth slung his bow carelessly over one shoulder and took hold of his reins again as he shook his blonde hair out of his eyes. The half-crazed horse kept galloping, but on top of him, his rider was almost shaking.

They mounted the stairs and Faerim urged North on a little harder as he gritted his teeth and rose in the saddle, but with some difficulty this time: he was beginning to tire. Halfway up the steps, a shadow seemed to come over the youth, and he looked up at the top of the steps...where he saw that spectral figure again, rearing up, his sword pointed forward towards the Inner Sanctum, silently commanding his nightmare troops. Faerim let rip with another volley of curses under his breath, and drew his sword from the saddle sheath just in case, holding the reins with one hand. North didn't need to be urged on further: he was almost blind in panic. Above them on the steps, Faerim saw the woman and Carthor's horse falter as she saw the witch king turning towards her...

"Ride!" Faerim yelled the single word like a catapult shot, and the woman's head turned towards him, her gaze ripped from the witch-king's. He was almost directly behind her, and, in desperation, he slapped the warhorse's rear with the flat of his hand. The horse was jerked into action, as if it to had been captivated by the witch king. They were so close to the Inner Sanctum, but Faerim made the woman ride ahead of him so she got in there first, as he rode behind her, just in case any more of the orcs came - or even... He turned, pausing his frantic horse as he stood at the gates of the Inner Sanctum, and looked up at the terrible, mysterious figure. It looked towards him and the youth looked back with burning eyes, pointing his sword defiantly at the creature who had made his city fall. North reared once more, terrified, and Faerim let his arm fall, turned, and rode through the gates. They shut behind him with a ominous clang, and Faerim suddenly felt faint with weariness - and the realisation that, at least for a time, he was safe.

[Novnarwen]

"We're almost there!"

His mother's voice drowned in the chaos surrounding them. Cries of pain and despair rung in his ears, penetrating his mind and body. There was something about the terror in his fellow kinsmen's voices, echoing, which he couldn’t' explain. What pain and suffering could possibly make a man scream with such horror? Brander shivered with fear where he sat, clutching his arms around his mother. He could not imagine the scenes evolving in the city, and deep in his heart, he was happy for the lack of his sight. He was in a way grateful for not being able to see what was taking place; men dying by their swords, fighting courageously until the end, women and children slaughtered; he was glad he couldn't see all he had known all his life being put to ruin by the greatness of a power he didn't and couldn't understand. However, even though he wished to be spared for the pain of witnessing this, the pictures which were being formed in his head by horrifying sounds, which seemed to be coming from every corner of the City, were merciless. In truth these images were just as cruel as the ones that were presented to everyone else.

As they rode, the wind rushed roughly against his face. He did not know exactly how far they were from the gate, but he did not dare ask. It was no time for questions, he knew that much. He thought of his brother. Faerim had left them. Bravely he'd done so, to save a poor woman and her child from an evil fate. Although Brander was proud of his brother's immense courage, he knew that this time it might have been the last time they had heard from him. The thought of his brother being somewhere out there, behind them, where orcs were roaming, slaying everyone in their way, made him swallow with anxiety. What was he supposed to do without Faerim, the only person he truly cared for? He frowned, immediately reproaching himself for his self-centeredness. How could he think of himself, what would happen to him if Faerim died, in a situation like this?

The pace of the horse seemed to finally slow down; his mother’s mare was no longer galloping in a ferocious speed, it was trotting hurriedly. Brander listened to the sounds from its hoofs, thumping the ground continually. “Mother, please tell me that we are safe,” said the blind, young boy silently, loosening his grip. He felt petty and unimportant where he sat, and when Brander discovered that his mother hadn’t heard what he had said, he was, in an odd sort of way, glad. Suddenly, the feeling of being weak, which he had felt quite often when being underestimated for being blind, came over him. But the sensation of being of no use, more like a burden, was stronger now than what it had ever been before. Suppressing his other feelings, he felt choked by thinking of his valiant brother. He felt ashamed. Brander was a young man; he should be fighting to protect the city he loved, the only city he knew. He should be one of those who were willing to go back to save women and children from the orc’s slaughtering. He should be one of the soldiers fighting against the terrible enemy who was threatened put everything to ruin. I should've been fighting, side by side with the other young men at my age.., he thought to himself sighing. Yes, he was truly ashamed. Brander knew that Carthor probably was too.

“Brander,”

“Yes, mother?”

“You must stay here. You will be safe for now. We are in the Inner Sanctum. The gates will still hold for a while. I must go and look for Faerim. He might be here, and we must find him.” He heard his mother jumping off the horseback. “If something happens when I am gone, pull the reins and ride. Don’t wait for me. You won’t . . see me . .”

Brander bent down, his mother leaving a dry kiss on his forehead. Tears were in his eyes, and already before she had left, he was praying for her to come back.

[Garen LiLorian]

The trip had been swift, and without event. Whether it had been luck or fate that guided their steps, not so much as a solitary orc showed his shadow on the path that Angóre and Erenor had taken. They could hear the shouts and screams of the dying, and now and again Angóre would stop to listen as the tramp of footsteps came close to the streets on which they walked, but they quickly left the scene of battle behind, moving on silent feet towards the citadel.

"Halt! Stand and declare!" The challenge rang out as the two elves reached the walls to the inner sanctum. A pale, scared face peered out over the wall.
Angóre and Erenor stopped. Erenor answered the lad, and a small portal opened for the Elves.

Inside, the chaos continued. Every now and again, missiles arced over the walls, wreaking havoc on the towers and halls of the King's sanctum. The Elves were instructed to meet with Mellonar inside the King's Hall, and they hurried inside, just as the councilor began to speak...

[Kransha]

Oddly enough, Mellonar did not really like Elves. He managed business with them only because it gained him favor in the court. It was a tedious, friendless job, but that was much the sort of thing that Mellonar enjoyed. The King favored his work, the court and lords favored his work and, as far as he knew, the Elves he interacted with were indifferent. Most saw through him, and he realized this, but he was a politician in the classic sense and had no qualms about being thought of as exactly what he was. His footsteps echoing loudly in his ears, Mellonar glided like a shade over the tiles of the court floor, towards the regal visage of three Elves, who stood amidst the slowly diminishing commotion of the King’s Hall. With a very conservative bow-nod of his drooping head and neck, Mellonar addressed the noblest of the trio, who he knew to be the Lord Ereglin. His mouth opened to speak as his aviary, vulture’s eyes scanned the sight of all three. Before words formed, manufactured by his silver tongue, he caught sight of the object cradled with odd tenderness in the arms of one of Ereglin’s guards. It was a child – a Dúnedain child.

‘Sentimental fool;’ thought Mellonar cynically, ‘he must have saved the child in the city.’ Mellonar was not inclined towards liking the younger of his kind. Babies and children were useless until they could work, and those that were spoiled or immature despite age were even more so. This Elf must be somewhat naïve, or at least a little wet-behind-the-ears, if he had bothered to save a child from Fornost’s crumbling ruin. His efforts would’ve been better spent combating the hordes of the enemy besieging the city. But, trying to disregard the gnawing cynicism, Mellonar spoke, turning from the Elven guard and not deigning to look upon him.

“Lord Ereglin,” he began shrewdly, clasping his two hands together and letting his spiny fingers interlace, “I had hoped to wait until the other Emissaries were here, but I fear time is against us, as is the day. Lady Bethiril and Erenor are absent, and I fear some harm may have befallen them, but I cannot know their fate. Soldiers have been dispatched to get them to safety. For now, I can only treat with you.”

The Elf Ereglin spoke before he could continue, hastily, but with good reason. “Not for long, I hope.” said the Emissary, “This court’s halls shall not sustain fire much longer.” Mellonar showed an obviously irked reaction to interruption, but calmed himself and spoke with the wisp of a smile glued to his stately face, hanging there as a false grin to ward off questions about his emotional state.

“Do not worry, Lord, your safety is assured. The rearguard will cover your retreat, as well as the King’s. You will evacuate with the second wave of citizens to issue from Fornost; soon, I suspect. The populace of Fornost will remove to the North Downs, where a stronghold of the Norbury Kings lies and shall hold us all until preparations have been made for all to retreat, most likely to the Blue Mountains for safety’s sake. There, we will recuperate until we can again strike at the Angmar insurgents.”

Mellonar spoke with illusory confidence, but the Elf detected this and did not hesitate to pose a disapproving question. “Would it not be better to hasten to Mithlond?” He ventured gracefully, and Mellonar’s left eye twitched indignantly, but he masked his annoyance again and answered with an all-too-pleasant smile on his cold lips. “The King’s decision is not mine, Lord. Best to let it stand and question it not.” In truth, he was inclined towards the Ered Luin, rather than retreating to the Grey Havens. The Elves might be overtly wise, but were they really that trustworthy? They had sent no great wealth of aid, even if they did remain a steady alliance with the Kings of Arthedain. The diplomatic relationship between the Elves and Dúnedain had been merely aesthetic since the Last Alliance, despite the few favors each party did for the other once in a blue moon. Diplomacy was not an Elven art, as politics was a governmental corruption adopted by those of Mannish descent. Political organization in Arnor was owed to old Númenór, the citizens of which had cultivated the craft and become adept politicians, skilled in the ways of law. Mellonar was one such adept person, but military stratagems were not his strong-suit.

“Counselor;” replied the Emissary, “has any attempt been made to overrule him? I would not encourage dissent, but I believe that fleeing to the Ered Luin is no apt course of action.”

Mellonar was about to respond, indignant again, when another of the Emissaries and his guards hurried into the hall, barely flustered as most people in such a rush would be. Their flawless grace aided in flight, something that Mellonar had oft coveted. Cutting himself off, the minister turned swiftly, his robe swirling like a mellifluous wave beneath him, and addressed the newcomers.

“Lady Erenor, my heart sings to see you unscathed. Now that you are here, we have but one Emissary to wait for. I have told Lord Ereglin of the events to come, and taken counsel with him about what must be done. I am afraid I must really upon him to tell you of the transpirings, for both of you must needs make haste. Hopefully, the Lady Bethiril can find her way, but I cannot remain to aid her course, wherever she may be. You, though, must hurry to the North Gate Passage. You will find it below this chamber, down the staircase at the end of this hall.” He jabbed a bony finger down the length of the quieting hallway, “The stairs lead to a wide passage, where the Dúnedain citizens have gathered for departure. Join them there and ready yourselves for retreat from the city. You will find some of the King’s Guardsmen among those in the passage; they will answer any and all questions you may have. I must be off to attend to some pressing matters before we depart. Go, and may your journey be safe.”

Not waiting for them to leave, Mellonar glided past them and in the opposite direction, disappearing from the hall a mere moment later.

[Amanaduial the archer]

North slowed to a walk, his head dropping wearily, but Faerim kept hold of his reins, staying alert as he turned the horse around to where a group had gathered some way inside the Sanctum, on a flight of white steps, one of the only areas that was not crowded with the survivors from the battle. The youth looked carefully at the group with sharp blue eyes, trying to figure out what was different about them - then one turned, and he saw the sharp, bright profile of it's face. An elf. His eyes widened in awe. The youth only remembered seeing the elves once before, and that had been when he was very young. Still, if all that Faerim had heard about elves was true, the seventeen years was still nothing more than a child to elves...

Giving the elves a strange look, Faerim clicked his tongue quietly and rode around past the stairway, shamelessly eavesdropping. He was rewarded with a snippet of conversation. "...will evacuate with the second wave of citizens to issue from Fornost; soon, I suspect. The populace of Fornost will remove to the North Downs, where a stronghold of the Norbury..."

Faerim's mind was whirling. Evacuate the citizens? The whole of Fornost?! No matter how practical, the thought had never occured to Faerim. The idea of moving away from everything and everyone he knew...

Everything you know is destroyed. And everyone you know...

Faerim clenched his jaw, his fiery anger returning against the beasts who had destroyed his home, and a wave of pure hatred washed over him. But it was quickly followed by tiredness; the youth tried to stay upright in his saddle, but as he dismounted, he landed heavily, his knees jarring. He winced, putting a hand to his leg where he could feel a dull ache forming: the statue that had fallen near him when he had made for the house had apparently not entirely missed him. Straightening up, he scanned the crowded Inner Sanctum, trying to catch sight of the woman he had escorted from the rubble along with her child, trying to pick her out amid the dark haired, shocked masses. After a second, he spied her, cradling her child, Carthor's horse nearby; taking North by the reins, he stroked the stallion's muzzle gratefully as he led him towards the woman.

"My lady," he said softly, approaching her from behind. The woman spun around, her dark hair a velvet curtain whipping out behind her, then, recognising him, she smiled. Faerim grinned back, but felt oddly tongue-tied - he was so tired that his usually quite natural charm had abandoned him completely. Grasping for it, he nodded politely to her and tried to speak without stammering. "I...I hope you are alright?"

The woman nodded, and seemed about to speak when her child gave a grizzling whine and she turned her attention away from the young man in front of her. Faerim hesitated for a second, then held out one hand to the woman, still wearing his riding gloves. "My name is Faerim, ma'am. May I ask yours?"

The woman smiled back, and took his hand gracefully. "Renedwen. Thank-"

"Faerim!" A shout interrupted the woman and both he and Renedwen looked around. Faerim's face lit up when he saw it was his mother charging towards them, her skirts held up as she made for them, her expression painfully relieved. Faerim seized his mother in an embrace, holding her tight for a second, her hair tickling his nose, but he didn't care: she still had hair, she still had her smell, she was still able to run, she was still...alive. So fast had the whole chain of events since he had left his post as an archer that he hadn't even been able to consider what might have happened, but now that it hadn't, Faerim felt relief wash over him like an icy shower, a cold torrent of 'what if's... He suddenly felt guilty: the pull of duty he had felt to save this woman could have meant his mother and Brander could have been killed without him there...

Brander! Faerim stepped back from his mother, his hands on her shoulders as he looked into her eyes, concerned. "Mother - Brander - where is he? Are you both safe? They are going to evacuate us from the city, to the Northern Downs. The elves are here, they - is Brander alright?" Faerim's words rushed out in a half-excited, half-anxious torrent.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

“Halt! Stand and declare!” A challenge rang from the door.

“I am Belectir of the King’s Guard. With me is Bethiril, emissary of Rivendell.”

The door grudgingly opened, and Bethiril marched in, oblivious to his guard’s farewell gesture. She caught sight of Mellonar, the king’s counsellor, hurriedly leaving the sanctum. The others in the room were looking at her, almost urging her to hurry. She maintained her slow, stately pace.

“What has happened?” she asked.

“We were about to move to the North Gate,” Erenor answered in a voice tipped with frost. “The king has ordered the evacuation of Fornost.”

And where could they hide from these foul folk? Bethiril almost said aloud. “And where are we to go?”

“We are to head for Ered Luin.” Bethiril saw a flash in the eyes of the emissary from Lindon. It was only a slight glint, and it faded soon, but even so she caught it. And she understood the cause: The mountains in Winter? What fools these Men be. It’s as if that at the king’s whim, the blanket of cold will be lifted from whithersoever he declares.

“I beg your pardon,” Angóre said, “but we must leave soon. The enemies come nearer as we tarry.”

The emissaries nodded assent. With the guards leading the way, the Elves headed for the stairs that would lead them to North Gate—and hopefully, Bethiril thought, a place safer than this fallen city.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor, though she disagreed with Berethil on bearing arms, thought that they might be in accord on this at least. All the Noldor remembered the Helcaraxe even if they had not made the journey themselves. Those who had roots in Gondolin had special reason to remember that dread journey.

Erenor focused her mind on those of the other Rivendell elves, especially that of Berethil who immediately preceded her as they made their way to the North gate. She hoped she would receive the words the words Erenor could not utter, knowing that the would increase the anxiety of the mortals: This path is folly. It will lead only to death for all, one way or another. All choices are perilous but, if we aim south,at least we need not add the weather to the list of our enemies -and there is a chance we might meet aid from our kindred. We should try to change the king's mind and perhaps if he refuses we should deem our embassy to be at an end

Erenor knew this thought was selfish but she did not see what could be acheived by following the route North to death. The elves would endure longer. They would travel easier, bear the cold better and require less food than the mortals but they were not invulnerable. Death by the sword would be preferable, she thought. Then she shivered;any death would be preferable to capture and thralldom. All the time she could hear the sound of clashing steel, the wails of the dying, the sound of the soldiers feet and she kept her mind open hoping for some response from Berethil before it was too late.

[Arry]

‘Pressing matters!’ snorted Gaeredhel. ‘What could be more pressing than getting the people to safety?’ He eyed the stooped figure of Mellonar as it whisked from the Hall. ‘I have heard from some of the King’s guard that beneath those voluminous robes of his, he has all sorts of secret pockets. I would just bet he has gone to fill them with packets of sneaking little notes he made on everyone who could be of use to him at sometime.’ He eyed his brother, who’d pulled down one of the soft hanging curtains that hid an alcove, and was busy tying it about him and looped over one shoulder as a sling for the child. ‘Here, let me give you a hand with that,’ he said, hacking off the excess and getting it tied securely. For a second, a small smile swept his lips in an upward arc as his finger caressed the little one’s cheek.

Rôsgollo fitted Gilley into the sling, adjusting it so that he would have good use of his arms for weapons as the need arose. He nodded at his brother that they were ready. Gaeredhel took his place before Lord Ereglin as his brother fell in behind. ‘Lead on, then, brother,’ Rôsgollo called out. ‘And be swift.’

At a run, the three Elves moved down the hallway and toward the passageway leading to the North Gate. As they sped down the steps from the hallway, Gaeredhel made one last comment. ‘And what sort of a joke was that last parting remark of the minister – “Go, and may your journey be safe.” By the One! The Witch-king and his minions are upon us in full force. Surely he must know they will harry us like hounds on the scent of a fox.’

The passageway was very wide and long. Refugees from the city were packed in tightly, the overwhelming stench of their fear palpable in the tight place. They were quiet, at least . . . parents shushing their children, many stifling their grief with choked off sobs for themselves and for their loved ones who had not made it through. They eyed the approaching Elves, sizing them up with sly glances . . . would they elbow their way through to the front without regard, these tall, cool Elves, one could almost hear them thinking.

Lord Ereglin stood between his two guards, their broad shoulders and stony looks keeping the press of the crowd at bay. ‘What business calls the King,’ Gaeredhel wondered, ‘to keep his people waiting so?’ Gilly whimpered briefly and was silenced as Rôsgollo gave him a sip of water from his flagon and a small bit of waybread to chew on . . .

[Nuranar]

Lissi had rarely wished to be taller than she was, but this was one of those times. If she could only see! Faerim was tall, and his fair hair should have stood out. Then why couldn't she find him? What if he- No! she told herself sternly, frowning and pressing her lips together, even as her eyes never ceased searching. You're going to look until there's no other- There!

"Faerim!" Catching up her skirt she broke into a run, slipping nimbly through the crowd, and caught her son in her arms. Thank you, thank you!

Abruptly he stepped back, hands on her shoulders and concern all over his face. "Mother - Brander - where is he? Are you both safe? They are going to evacuate us from the city, to the Northern Downs. The elves are here, they - is Brander alright?"

Lissi smiled up at her son. "Brander is quite safe, we are both safe, even Morn. I left him further back in the Sanctum. As I was searching for you I heard people talking about an escape. Come with me, we must rejoin him." Faerim's mouth opened as she turned, but before he made a sound Lissi stopped. "Wait! The woman, and her child - are they...?"

Faerim nodded reassuringly, gestured to the silent figure beyond him. "This is Renedwen, mother."

Lissi's quick grey eyes took in the stranger, noticed her tired regal bearing, her fine clothing, and the child in her arms; the lines of misery that marred her beautiful face and the bewildered agony of grief looking out of her blue eyes. She was not young, but she seemed so forlorn and vulnerable that Lissi's heart was wrung. Impulsively she embraced her. "Come with us, dear," she said softly. "You will be safe with us."

Renedwen's mouth twisted suddenly, as if with some poignant emotion. "Thank you," she said, in a low voice. Lissi squeezed her hand, and turned to Carthor's horse to give Renedwen a moment of privacy.

"Come on, Faerim," she said a moment later, "Brander is this way." As the three made their slow struggle through the crowd, leading the horses, Lissi gradually worked her way to Faerim's side. "Son," she breathed softly, in a very controlled voice, "have you heard anything of your father?" Her eyes shone very bright, all the anxiety and emotion of the day only there finding expression.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

The snow fell heavier. The emissaries from Rivendell looked around. Most of the refugees were ill-clad—in the haste of their departure they had left their winter clothing behind. Families huddled, shivering together as they strove to keep warm.

Bethiril felt for them. She also felt the message of Erenor, flashing through her mind every now and then. Her respect for her fellow emissary increased a little, coming up with such a bold (and desperate) move as a protest. However, any action they would take at this time would divert the focus of the king from the more pressing task of evacuating the city. Despite their perception of the king, she knew that what he was doing right now was what he thought was best for his people.

But the road really is folly. She sighed, channelling her anger at the feeling of helplessness that this situation had put her in. She had been there before, but nonetheless it irks her that such situations had to exist.

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen knew full well how to ride a horse but she found herself unable to move. She held the reins in her cold, shaking hands while the young man urged both horses onwards. She couldn’t do more than hold the reins and hope that her son was unharmed. She looked down at him silently, hoping to hear him gurgle or make a babbling noise and couldn’t think of anything except his vulnerability. Her rescuer urged hoer on again and finally she kicked her heels and the horse moved off up the steps.

She halted at the top of the steps, transfixed by the sight of the creature that headed towards her. The air was cold and her heart seemed almost to freeze. She felt the horse falter and her blood ran cold. It was as though a nightmare had come to life. One of the night terrors which took her a dark place where she was frozen and unable to escape from what assailed her until her eyes opened and she woke, clammy and breathing hard. She could not wake this time. The dream was real.

Then she felt something strike the horse and it bolted forwards and she frantically grasped for the reins, only catching hold of them as the horse sped her through the gate. He did not stop until they were well inside the sanctum and he could go no further owing to the crowd of frightened people clustered within. She took a breath as she realised what had happened and slid down from the horse, her legs shaking and her eyes wide. Huddled by the horse’s steaming flanks, she carefully looked inside the bundle of blankets still strapped as firmly as could be to her chest. She saw the face of her son, his eyes closed and his cheeks slightly reddened, but as healthy and placid as ever and her racing heart eased.

“My lady”, she recognised the voice but it was different somehow. Turning around, she saw the face of the young man who had rescued her and gave him a brilliant smile. He was much younger than she had first thought, barely more than a boy, and he stumbled over his words. Still, he did his best to retain his dignity and she found herself glad to receive his best attempt at courtesy. Faerim. She had not heard the name, though she knew her husband would have done; he always took pains to be kind to the younger soldiers. She felt a strange sensation of pride and grief welling up inside her when an ecstatic voice cried out and Faerim turned to greet a woman who was obviously his mother.

Renedwen clutched her son tightly as she watched them embrace. She thought of how she had almost given her son up to someone else, how she had almost run back to her father’s house. She knew it would have been wrong, and she knew she would have known it was wrong the instant she did it. Nobody and nothing was going to take this child from her now. His eyes were open and she saw he was waking, finally unsettled by the noise around them. Those clear grey eyes looked right into hers and she looked into them sadly, thinking of her husband, alive only a few hours ago, and now waking in that green field alone. Maybe he would not be alone for long. There would be her mother and father with him. And her brothers. She was the one alone.

She was shaken from her thoughts by Faerim’s mother who gazed on her thoughtfully, with a look of heartfelt warmth, and then threw her arms about her. Taken aback for a moment, Renedwen almost shrank from the embrace, but she finally sank into it, and put an arm about the other woman in a gesture of gratitude and comfort. Renedwen couldn’t thank this woman enough and did not know how to put her feelings into words. Her son had rescued a stranger, had put his life at risk for her. She was not a wealthy woman, Renedwen could tell she had put her life early into raising a family, yet here she was, welcoming her and offering help. Would this have happened before these troubles? Renedwen did not know, but she knew she wouldn’t have considered such a thing. She was, she had been, the wife of a wealthy man, and they lived in a fine house, and she had fine gowns and fine ideas. All that would have set her apart just a day ago, but now in the ruins of the city she saw that they were all the same people.

Renedwen followed Faerim and his mother, unable to do anything else. Once, she would have led, but now she could do nothing else but follow meekly. She was chilled to her heart and still unable to say much, her sharp tongue finally stilled, and her brilliant blue eyes dim and dull with grief and shock. All the nightmares and portents of doom had finally come to pass and there would be no waking up in a warm bed this time.

[Kransha]

Hírvegil wished now, as he hurried through the inner sanctum, that he could be with his troops on the field of battle, but King’s orders could not be ignored. Now that the Elves’ were found, Hírvegil had to be sure that the word sent to him was not false, and make final arrangements for departure. Belegorn was a stern and proud Dúnedain commander, one who would not let him down. He had been given command of the Rearguard before, and proved extremely resourceful when such occurrences occurred. If anyone could successfully move the rearguard through two sanctums and cover the retreat of another small army of non-combatants, it was Belegorn, and this confidence boost brought up a surge of optimistic energy in Hírvegil, although it was replaced by grimness again a moment later when the sound of harsh orcish drumbeats and the steady rhythm of crashing projectiles filled his ears.

The Captain ran into the complex of hallways, chambers, vaults, corridors, and colonnades, but the area had nearly entirely emptied, and the plain bareness of the halls was eerie and dark, combined with the terrific sonic explosion that pressed inward from outside with each passing second. Sunlight in the halls had been stifled by smog from the field and the shadow of Angmar itself. Torches were going out as blustery winds blew in and particles of crumbled marble and stone from above fell from the cracks in the domes and roofs of the citadel, clattering onto the floor below where piles of worn dust accumulated into small piles and lumps that soon covered the area. Soon, Hírvegil was distractedly glancing through each doorway into every chamber to find someone who could relay information to him, until he reached a shady hallway, decked with weakened columns on both sides, and rushed down its length. This area was a clump of storerooms and economic chambers used primarily for fiscal ceremonies. There was a small auction house contained entirely in one room, and a larger bank in another, the bank whose vaults held nobility's earnings, rather than those of the common populaces. Some large rooms branched off into smaller rooms, all circular and barely large enough to hold a congregation of five. Hirvegil, huffing and puffing wearily as he went, darted into every alcove and through every arched doorway long enough to scan every room in succession.

At last he caught a glimpse of a veiled, hunched figure standing in one of the chambers, its narrow shadow cast ominously across the shimmering floor. Hírvegil recognized the figure, even with its back turned, as it bent over several marble tables erected in a claustrophobic storeroom. “Mellonar.” He said, and the figure spun about on his flailing robe tassels, obviously flustered. “Captain,” remarked the nervous Minister, hastily diverting his attention to Hírvegil, “you are not with your troops. You-”

Hirvegil quickly cut him off. He could easily have questioned the counselor’s own integrity, rummaging through items in a darkened storeroom when he should be consulting with the Elven Emissaries or reassuring the Dunedain, but this was certainly not the time to entertain personal squabbles such as that. “There is no time for banter now, Minister.” He said, not even moving towards the minister, “Are all the Elves in the passage?” Mellonar nodded, quavering with fear, confusion, or nervousness, as he often did. “I saw two Emissaries there myself, but one journeyed there, I assume, without my knowing.” He paused, looking off and stumbling over the fine Elven name that had escaped his memory before saying, with some confidence, “The Lady Bethiril, it was she.” He took a moment to visibly ponder, and another to jump, jolted by a burst of sound that shattered the stilness of his rummaging session. Behind him and above, a glass window shattered into crystalline shards, with trickled onto the floor nearby, and he backed off subserviently.

“You are sure she is there now.” Hírvegil’s voice held no urgency, but the matter spoken of was urgent. It was definitely in his as well as Mellonar’s best interests to see that all Elves escaped safely from the city. Again Mellonar nodded, his balding head bobbing swiftly up and down as he began to move across the small, closet-like room towards the Captain of the Rearguard. “I heard the guards declaiming to someone as I left the two that had come. I do not doubt that it was her.” He continued moving, but Hírvegil, his armor jingling and clanking gently as he swung around, waved him off and spoke, “Good. Are the civilians prepared for departure?” He spoke even more quietly now, with the stern seriousness stereotypical of a military commander, and of one of the Dúnedain. His proud gaze was lessened, though, by the alarmed state of emergency, the fires of anarchy that raged about him. He bore on his face a mixture of an icy glare and a heated, passionate look of need - need to make safe his city.

“Yes,” replied Mellonar, “they are prepared.” Hírvegil nodded grimly. “All is as it should be. I shall initiate the final stage of the evacuation.” With that, he dashed off down the darkened colonnade. Mellonar, shaking his cold head as the Captain made his way to the North Gate Passage, turned and returned to his daunting work – filling his robe’s orifices with various trinkets that would not be missed by the evacuating ministers, but might fetch a pretty penny if the Dúnedain ever reached mercantile civilization. He had already stuffed copper and silver coins into his robe's pockets to the brim, and clinking currency spilled out as he moved, littering the floor, once he had finished. A few medallions and semi-precious metals had found there way inside as well; anything worth something. He admitted to himself as he heard Hirvegil's footsteps' fade into a nerve-racking nothingness of sound that he was a cad to do what he was doing, but the reward was enough to keep him from caring. Once he had sufficiently exercised his sudden spurt of kleptomania, he to hurried out of the storeroom and towards the North Gate Passage.

[Arry]

‘What business calls the King,’ Gaeredhel wondered, ‘to keep his people waiting so?’

The brothers’ voices were low as they discussed what they expected to happen next. ‘Most likely he is already at the front,’ said Rôsgollo, ‘and there are any number of advisors who have one last thing to say before he is free to take action.’ He pursed his lips and raised one brow at his brother. ‘You know how hemmed in plain Captains are, always having to weigh this and that before even one part of a plan is put into play. How much worse must it be for a King.’

‘Well, If I were King,’ began Gaeredhel, ‘and the Shadow had fallen on this city as it did today, I would make all haste to put as many leagues as I could and as swiftly between the armies of the enemy and my people.’

‘Then thank the One you are not King, brother!’ Rôsgollo returned. ‘Else we might already be rotting corpses on the northern fields.’

The crowd of refugees nearest to the Elves pushed in closer about the two brothers. There were some, in the grip of fear, who agreed with Gaeredhel, and voiced their greatest worries. What if the King had no plan? What if he thought it hopeless? What if he had already fled and had left them behind to slow the pursuit of his own escape? Others with cooler heads raised their voices recalling how the King had always put his people first. Think on it they admonished their fellow citizens, bringing up instances in which the King had acted for the good of them all. Would it not be reasonable to think he would continue to do so? Voices surged and receded and surged again as more of the crowd expressed their opinions.

‘Now look what your loosely guarded lips have wrought,’ Rôsgollo hissed in a low voice at his brother. ‘This is all we need now, a panic in this small passageway . . .’

There were muted cries, then, from the front of the passageway, whispers really, that moved toward the back of the corridor. And the swish of cloaks and clothes, the scrape of boots and shoes as people turned toward the front. ‘We are moving!’ The words rippled and swelled toward the back ranks, bringing some small measure of hope to those who had feared the worst.

The at-first-slow progress increased in speed until the front of the second wave of evacuees had neared the exit of the passageway. Rôsgollo tucked Gilly in close to his chest, secured tightly by the sling he’d rigged for the child. He led the way toward the exit, Lord Ereglin following close behind him. Gaeredhel followed on their heels, his bow at the ready, an arrow nocked.

‘Hurry, brother,’ Gaeredhel called to Rôsgollo, turning often to see what might follow behind the fleeing men and Elves. ‘There are sounds of Dunedain troops trailing us closely.’ He paused in his talking, his keen ears trained on the sounds in the passage way. ‘And beyond that last line of protectors are the foul sounds of Orcs and other spawn of shadow that seek to overcome them . . .’

[Saurreg]

Belegorn

An enormous missile streaked across the darkened sky and impacted upon the highest structure in the city of the grey-eyed sea lords. A low menacing sound of rupture emitted from the base of the king’s citadel – the seat of power of all Arthedain, followed by the distinctive snapping of mortar and paste. For a few moments nothing happened, and then the top of the slender tower seemingly twisted clockwise on its own accord before crumbling into bites and chunks of clay, concrete and stone which, plummeted swiftly towards the fiery inferno that was once the proud white city of Fornost.

Arthedain had finally fallen and with that, two thousand years of Dúnedain hegemony in the north came to a close.

Fornost itself, once the greatest and most magnificent city of men, second only to the old capital of Annúminas, was no longer recognizable. Its once gleaming white towers and smooth walls had been greatly reduced and those that remained standing were crumbling and stained grey by ash and soot, while its paved streets were caked in grease and dried blood. Fornost, once the capital of Arthedain was now the prize of Angmar. Its capture marked a milestone in the Captain of Despair’s victorious campaign.

Belegorn watched, almost mesmerized as the top of the king’s citadel came crashing onto the forum. He was filled with disgust at the misdeed that was done but at the same time felt a pang of envy for the assets and capability of the enemy. No one could deny the fact that those wretched orcs were exceptionally gifted siege engineers. Belegorn attributed that talent to their destructive nature.

The stalwartly Rearguard was now in the narrow confines of the north passage with the north gates a hundred or so yards to their rear. They had traded blood for time at the main gate of the third wall while women, children and the infirm made their escape out of Fornost. Like automated killing machines, the tough soldiers let the enemy bash themselves senseless against their broad shields before cutting them down skillfully with sharp swords or running them through with long spears and thus the Captain of Despair paid a high price for the barter of the gates. Only when the last of the non combatants had left the walls of the great city did the elite regiment continue its leap frog withdrawal into the inner sanctum with immaculate precision and discipline, brave lusty voices laughing and singing.

While the rearguard made its slow but steady retreat, a gang of feisty soldiers from the annihilated vanguard suddenly appeared out of nowhere before an astonished Belegorn and offered to fight to their last along side him and his regiment. Grateful for the reinforcement, the acting-captain of the rearguard ordered the leader of the troop to lead his men ahead of the rearguard and undo any ambush that the enemy might have planned during the chaotic fighting before finding mounts for themselves and to flee while they can. “Easily accomplished my lord Lieutenant! Rest assured!” replied the leader of the men, a man by the name of Euphranor and he was true to his word – no sooner had the first elements of the Rearguard entered the first building did it find decapitated orcs laying sprawled behind upturned tables and slumped against the dark corners of walls.


A feral cry filled the narrow but long north passage, sending echoes along the stone carved walls. A pack of iron-clad uruks launched themselves against the thangail of the Rearguard only to be knocked onto their feet by the mobile wall. The guardsmen parted their shields and dispatched the stunned orcs with ruthless efficiency before reforming the infamous shield fence again. These men were the battle-proven highly experienced men of the third line. The withdrawal was entering its most crucial phase and Belegorn wanted only the most capable men to hold the dark torrent that threatened to engulf them all. Already, companies after companies starting with the newer men were dismissed from the north gate via horseback and the Rearguard was down to its last element of veterans – men who volunteered to be literally the last line of defense. The regiment’s standard was amongst the first to be sent off – to its rightful captain lest the regiment be overran and the pennon capture. Only Belegorn’s ever reliable archers remained also and these were now busy at work – pouring a thin line of liquid fire incendiary from where the line of guardsmen stood, in the axis of the passage before turning in both directions and laying it across the with of the north passage so that the pattern of the powdered substance of pitch, sulphur, tow, pounded gum of frankincense and pine saw dust resembled that of an elongated tee.

The two archers finished pouring the connection, stuck the cock snuggly into the opening of the barrels and scampered off towards their mounts at the entrance of the north gate. The sergeant of the archers arrayed his men and one of them gave Belegorn a curt nod. He was sweating profusely and it wasn’t just due to the humility of the passage. Belegorn lifted his stained sword and ascertained that he had all the principal non-conmissioned officers’ attention and in another hand he held a flare. It was time to put his plan into motion – at best the rearguard lives to fight another day and the enemy is forced to seek another way pass the north gate to catch up with the refugees. At worst, everybody got to visit the Halls of Mandos. Belegorn began his series of commands,

“Frontline! Fall back! Normal pace!”

The command was echoed by the sergeant of the shield bearing guardsmen who started backtracking. Metallic soles marching in unison. The last defense of Arthedain was no more.

“Archers ready?”

“Ready!”

The thangail continued its steady withdrawal, it was getting closer to the top of the tee. Another feral cry filled the passage as another pack of uruks commenced their charge, hot on the heels of the guardsmen whom they though were cracking.

“Frontline down! Archers fire!” yelled Belegorn as he pointed his sword in the direction of the retreating guardsmen and charging uruks to emphasize his point.

Immediately the highly disciplined and alert guardsmen fell onto one knee and lowered their heads. Not a minute too soon a flurry of black feathered arrows streamed overhead and found their mark amidst the charging uruks, stopping that menace dead in its tracks. Time was of the essence and Belegorn wasted none of it,

“Frontline fall back! Archers fall back! Quick time!”

A cacophony of trampling feet filled the passage as the guardsmen came thundering towards the north gate and where Belegorn was. Despite the rush, Belegorn noted that each guardsmen was wary on where he planted the sole of his boot, especially where lines of incendiary were. The guardsmen continued their frantic retreat and did not stop even when they were clear of the incendiary. Joined by the archers, they continued retreating, streaming pass the first lieutenant. The enemy had recovered and had starting pursing. Bellowing at the top of their lungs with joy and wildly waving crudely shaped scimitar, axes and clubs in the air.

Belegorn sheathed his sword and pulled the cord of the flare, igniting the charge and threw the burning item onto the incendiary, turned tail and fled at breakneck speed. There was a violent white flash and the entire passage behind him was engulfed in an eerie hue of blue. Shearing heat engulfed him and his nerves screamed in pain over the extreme sensation he felt. But Belegorn ran on nearing the gate, because he knew that to stop then was to surrender to death. He could hear the death cries and howls of the miserable beasts as the liquid fire greedily consumed them. The heat was excruciating and even there so close to the gate, the air had turned into a superheated stream flowing towards the source of the flames. Belegorn faltered and felt his legs undoing beneath him. But then strong hands reached out and pulled him forwards, through the gate into the open.

Belegorn fell face first onto a moss covered ground. He could feel the vibrations from the shuffling feet about him and then cold water being poured all over him over and over again. Coughing and spluttering, he turned around,

‘Enough! Are you trying to drown your lieutenant!”

“No sir!”

‘Good, for I’ve had enough! Mount your horses and ride for the column. And someone help me up! I feel like a drowned rat!”

[Kransha]

Passage to the North Downs was quicker than expected. Those on horseback, or riding in carts, on mules, or hurrying on foot moved quickly away from the ruin of their once-home, shedding but a few choice tears over their loss. The armies of the Dúnedain were beyond devastated; they were ravaged. Once a proud army of thousands, the full core of the military had been reduced to around one hundred men – not nearly enough to stand up to the hordes of Angmar. Thankfully, Belegorn’s clever plan had bottled up the orcs in the city, amidst crumbling wreckage, and the trick would slay many as they tried to surmount it, but it would not withhold them forever, and this heavy thought weighed like a jagged rock balanced on the shoulders of the trekking refugees. Reaching the North Downs would not save them either.

It was less than a day before the column, moving swiftly against harsh winds that swept down from the north, ascended into the rolling hills of the North Downs. Some small outposts, towers of wood that barely reached above the snow-capped slopes of the Downs, dotted the area. They grew more frequent as the column spread and stretched, winding up over cobbled paths that looped into the hills. Tussocks also pockmarked the snowy white earth, and clouds moved with serene tranquility overhead. A burden of sadness lay upon the group, but it was not enough to drag them down, or keep them silent for very long.

Hírvegil rode at the back with his troops; he had reunited with them after the train escaped Fornost, and given due congratulations to his trusty lieutenant, Belegorn. He could not dwell on his second’s accomplishment, unfortunately, nor could he ponder many thoughts beside those that filled his mind. The King’s portion of the column, separate from the rest by nearly a mile and containing the ministers, counselors, and more prosperous landowners or merchants of the city, had already entered the Downs fortress deep in the hills. Hírvegil knew that, when the Rearguard arrived, they would discover the nature of the Dúnedain’s stay in the hold; whether it would be a long stay and an attempt to outwear the Witch-King’s host through siege, or a brief sojourn disrupted by almost immediate departure. A long siege was not a good idea, in the humble strategic opinion of the Captain of the Rearguard. The North Downs hold was not an impregnable fortress, it was a keep that might serve to hold off the orcs for days, but not months or, more likely, the years it would take to fully repel the fearsome Chieftain of the Nazgûl and his merciless host.

The sun was in the sky, but barely visible between wisps of plentiful cloud. The vessel of Arien had not shone over Fornost, possibly hidden in fear of the Witch-King’s shadowy wrath, but now it burst out with subdued defiance, meek but apparent despite the coming of dusk. The sky’s hue was still dark, but no longer because of evil shadows or dark occurrences. Night was on its way, and a blood red tinge had slid onto the horizon, gently tracing the silhouette of distant white mountains turned orange by the golden glare. The hills became steeper around the Rearguard and those citizens who had been absorbed into it. All horses and beasts of burden bore both man and supplies, some saddled down with two people as well as sacks of rescued goods bound to their flanks. The animals trudged upward as the primitive pathway they strode upon became wider, and bordered on each side by picket fences of ancient, rotted woods. The train passed through thin gaps between hills as the hills became mountainous peaks and the valleys beneath became near gorges.

As Hírvegil, prodding his horse and inciting it to move faster, looked about warily, he saw the hillsides close in on him and the column packed together tightly, moving beneath some archaic stone arches set into the walls of hill-rock on either side of them, remnants of a past architectural regime. As the refugees passed beneath the last high arch, Hírvegil clucked his stern tongue in recognition, knowing that they had crossed through the North Pass. He looked downward expectantly to see the North Downs’ Keep, an unimposing brick structure built into the recess of a mountain, surrounded on one side by a shallow coomb that flattened out in one section to create a land-bridge that led into the keep. Two towers sat, built into outcroppings of the mountain looming of the keep, on either side of the hold, and, as evening came and the sunlight dimmed, glimmering torchlight could be seen, like flickering candles, on the towers’ turrets.

When, by the torches of the Rearguard, the refugees caught sight of the keep, many broke into a run, or goaded their steeds to their fastest paces, pushing the creatures to their imagined limits. The earthen bridge seemed to expand to meet them, and the iron-grilled gates of the keep gaped like a pleasant maw to take them in. The hundreds crowded into the chamber just behind the door, and filed through expansive halls, ablaze with chatter and talk, until they all reached a greater chamber, huge in size, with an unseen ceiling and arching walls that vaulted at a level far above. This was the grand chamber of the hold, where councils of old had oft been held, built beneath an off-shooting hill of the high mountain. Here there was no time for merry or teary reunification, for the place was buzzing and claustrophobic. The Rearguard dismounted, leaving countless stable boys, pages, and squires to hurry the animals to a stable in the fort. They surrounded the civilians, who joined the others of their ilk at the center of the hall. The remainder of Fornost was barely five hundred, many civilians and lords among that number, and all were present in the grand room, though some nobles and ministers were rumored to be taking counsel in adjacent chambers. There was not a silent instant that passed, for all were speaking at once, creating a tremendous din. No one knew exactly what was going on, or what was going on, or much of anything, in fact.

Until, that is, the King arrived.

The room fell silent as King Arvedui of Arthedain mounted a small marble platform at one end of the chamber, flanked by elegantly clad royal guards and close ministers, as well as servants who stood or knelt beside him. Hirvegil looked on from the very back, trying to deduce what had occurred before his arrival. He guessed that Arvedui had consulted with the few ministers who arrived with him and settled on a finite plan, without the aid of the nobles who had been part of Hírvegil’s evacuation party. Now was probably the best time for a morale boost, considering the circumstance, and who better to give such a talk than the King. Arvedui did not often appear to his people, except for addresses to the populace made from a balcony or podium arranged for him. This unprofessional, personal atmosphere was jarring and abnormal, but the shifty Dúnedain, nervous and filled with consternation, got used to it sheerly for the sake of their own peace of mind. After nearly a full minute of blank silence, the King raised his open hands and spoke, his kingly voice booming.

“My people: our home is lost to us, our lands are marred, and many of us lie slain in Fornost Akallabêth, but we are still here!” There was some more shifting, but no distinct whispers from Arvedui’s audience. He had referred to Fornost as “Akallabêth”, the Downfallen, a name of old Númenór. This was appropriate usage, but ill-timed. Solemnly, he went on. “Regardless of the losses we have bravely endured, there is still a road we must take. We are not defeated, not bereft of life or lost in a tempest sea; we are the Dúnedain of Arnor, the people of mighty Isildur and Elendil, we shall not be conquered by wraiths and foul-spawn!” He brandished a fist madly in the air. “This is not our home, nor will it be for long. A plan has been devised that shall grant us safety from the insurgents from the east.”

He took time to pause, but all remained quiet. This was news, good or bad, that would incite a reaction.

“The North Downs shall hold us intact for some days, until preparations for a longer trek across the wilds have been made. By the will of the heavens we shall traverse the lands to the west and make haste to the Blue Mountains.” Now whispers and sidling words could not be avoided. Unnerved chatter undulated through the crowds. “There,” continued Arvedui calmly, “the refuges of the Dwarves shall be home to us until we have recovered from this stinging blow. Food and supplies can be found there, and metals in those mines to forge new weapons that shall replace our splintered blades. Shields will be remade, spears sharpened, armor wrought, and victory regained in time. It may take many months, but, by the Valar I swear, the line of Isildur shall reclaim Fornost and all of Arnor in time, and our glory and power shall be restored. The strength of the House of Elendil shall crush this menace in time. Until then, we will repair to the Ered Luin and rest in safety.” He stopped again, having paused periodically for reactions during the speech, and let it all sink in.

“Make yourselves ready, all, for a great journey. Look to your arms and your families, tender them dearly, and let them not stray from you. The wilds shall not bow to us, we must overcome them, and the elements in turn. But, I say no darkling thing shall hinder us. Arnor is not over, my people. The North has not fallen yet!”

With that, Arvedui descended from the platform, leaving a sudden overwhelming surge of noise in his wake.